At end of day, in dark’ning hours,
When winds are still and closed are flowers,
I sit outside beside the tree
And hear the song you sing to me.

Yet it is not for me you sing,
But for yourself, just practicing.
You don’t know I am here at all,
Within the dark, behind the wall.

Behind the wall, beside the tree,
Upon a bench I sit for me
And take in true the best of you,
To carry it the whole night through.

For in my sleep your voice I dream;
I seem to float on your pure stream,
And when I wake in bright’ning hours
I’m overjoyed from hearing flowers.

Sing on, sing on, perfect your tone;
Make each phrase yours, and yours alone.
I’ll interrupt you not at all,
Beside low tree, behind dark wall.

Behind the wall, within the night,
I’ll guard your spirit’s singing light,
Let no one trespass while I’m here,
Let no one mar the bars I hear.

So right, and so complete, so free,
So beautiful, I all but see
The rosy bud that spreads apart
The secret petals of your art.

Sing on, sing on, one minute more!
This hour goes so fast before!
Yet I am happy, having heard
Such beauty in each soaring word.