Know you, winds that blow your course
    Down the verdant valleys,
That somewhere you must, perforce,
    Kiss the brow of Alice?
When her gentle face you find,
Kiss it softly, naughty wind.

Roses waving fair and sweet
    Thro' the garden alleys,
Grow into a glory meet
    For the eye of Alice;
Let the wind your offering bear
Of sweet perfume, faint and rare.

Lily holding crystal dew
    In your pure white chalice,
Nature kind hath fashioned you
    Like the soul of Alice;
It of purest white is wrought,
Filled with gems of crystal thought.