Down in a garden olden,— Just where, I do not know,— A buttercup all golden Chanced near a rose to grow; And every morning early, Before the birds were up, A tiny dewdrop pearly Fell in this little cup. This was the drink of water The rose had every day; But no one yet has caught her While drinking in this way. Surely, it is no treason To say she drinks so yet, For that may be the reason Her lips with dew are wet.
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...
