Sojourn must I to Provence again,
to its clear and love spun sky,
there, warm the breeze weaves a sigh
amid honeyed fields of sun kist grain,
I must go to Provence yet once again
where soft Orient rays caress the dawn,
languishing long on the mist hung morn,
as Lavender mimics the skies blue reign,
its quietude of beauty enraptures the lea,
from new sprung dawn to Westerns fiery eve,
unknown to fools frantic laundered plea,
unaware what the riches of the heart conceive,

Thus, my whispering emotion truly can say,
the spell of Provence has stolen my wits away.