There has fallen a splendid therefrom the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear;She is coming, my life, my fate. The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"And the lily whispers, "I wait." She is coming, my own, my sweet;Where it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed;My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead, Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.