Go, rose, and in her golden hair You shall forget the garden soon; The sunshine is a captive there And crowns her with a constant noon. And when your spicy odor goes, And fades the beauty of your bloom, Think what a lovely hand, O Rose, Shall place your body in the tomb!
A Little way below her chin, Caught in her bosom’s snowy hem, Some buttercups are fastened in,— Ah, how I envy them! They do not miss their meadow place, Nor are they conscious that their skies Are not the heavens, but her face, Her hair, and mild blue eyes. There, in the downy meshes...
By the fire that loves to tint her Cheeks the color of a rose, While the wanton winds of winter Lose the landscape in the snows,— While the air grows keen and bitter, And the clean-cut silver stars Tremble in the cold and glitter Through the twilight’s dusky bars,— In a cosey room where...
All up and down in shadow-town The shadow children go; In every street you ’re sure to meet Them running to and fro. They move around without a sound, They play at hide-and-seek, But no one yet that I have met Has ever heard them speak. Beneath the tree you often see Them dancing in...
See, yonder, the belfry tower That gleams in the moon’s pale light; Or is it a ghostly flower That dreams in the silent night? I listen and hear the chime Go quavering o’er the town, And out of this flower of Time Twelve petals are wafted down.
All up and down in shadow-town The shadow children go; In every street you ’re sure to meet Them running to and fro. They move around without a sound, They play at hide-and-seek, But no one yet that I have met Has ever heard them speak. Beneath the tree you often see Them dancing in...
