There on the heart's-ache moors
Beneath the harshest gale,
Amongst greying heather
The lone sky too pale;
Grow sprigs of lavender
Frail and delicate
Unfurling tender petals
Cloaked in trembling violet.

They wait in solitude,
Ever full of hope and cheer
But lonely, so lonely
As dies the passing year.
They have not daisy’s bright joy
Nor rose's fair grace
They have only the moors
And the clouds of heaven's lace.

And so lavender flowers
Must learn to be content
With watching and waiting
And a whispered last lament.
They sway there forgotten,
With only the lark's sharp cry;
Unloved, their beauty wasted,
Beneath a cold and barren sky.