O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The splendour falls on castle walls

With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans,

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

After it, follow it,

God-gifted organ-voice of England,

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.

She is coming, my dove, my dear;

I hate that dreadful hollow behind the little wood.

Come into the garden, Maud,