'Twas the morning of Palm Sunday, in Village Adair,
And the shy little chapel seemed jubilant there;
'Twas the morn of Palm Sunday, sad Sunday, I ween,
That I met thee and loved thee, Alexandrine,
Alexandrine!

I stood by the pew that was nearest to thine,
While gentle St. Agnes, just over the shrine,
Yearned tenderly to thee, as if she had seen
Thy face up in Heaven, Alexandrine,
Alexandrine!

I remember thy bodice, so snowy and blest,
With a violet guarding its virginal nest;
Thy sensitive forehead, thy contour serene,
And a ripple of ringlets, Alexandrine,
Alexandrine!

We met in the aisle — how I think of it now! —
And meekly I tendered my sanctified bough.
'Twas fondled, thy darling, deft fingers between —
Ah! the poor bough is withered , Alexandrine,
Alexandrine!

And withered am I by a pitiless doom,
Like a blast from the lungs of the demon simoom;
In the magical spell of a haunted ravine,
Dost thou hear when I call thee, Alexandrine?
Alexandrine!

On my cheek there is health, all my mind is aglow,
But my soul is the saddest Sahara I know;
For thought hath not compassed, and eye hath not seen
The kingdom I'm banished from, Alexandrine,
Alexandrine!

By the way of the cross gleams thy radiant crown;
By the way of the world all my dreams have gone down:
For thee peace and mercy; for me daggers keen,
And war with the wehr-wolf, Alexandrine,
Alexandrine!

Thy sorrows were many, thy happy days few;
Thy tears bowed thee down like a rose crushed with dew;
But those tears were too precious for mortal to glean,
And a bride of the sky art thou, Alexandrine,
Alexandrine!

In a dim convent cell of a land far away,
Thy crucifix guides thee by night and by day;
And the white wings of seraphim flutter between
My eyes and thy holiness, Alexandrine,
Alexandrine!

In thy saintliest prayer I would ask to remain,
Though for me there be no resurrection again.
The stars in their courses have mocked me, my queen,
But I bless thee forever, Alexandrine,
Alexandrine!