Henry Van Dyke

A Lover’s Envy

I envy every flower that blows 
Along the meadow where she goes, 
And every bird that sings to her, 
And every breeze that brings to her
The fragrance of the rose. 

I envy every poet’s rhyme
That moves her heart at eventime,
And every tree that wears for her
Its brightest bloom, and bears for her
The fruitage of its prime. 

I envy every Southern night
That paves her path with moonbeams white,
And silvers all the leaves for her,
And in their shadow weaves for her
A dream of dear delight. 

I envy none whose love requires
Of her a gift, a task that tires:
I only long to live to her,
I only ask to give to her
All that her heart desires.