10
poems.
Then converse lit the passing hour
With joy no other time hath worn;—
What's sweeter than the spring-time flow'r,
Or lovelier than the light of morn!
With joy no other time hath worn;—
What's sweeter than the spring-time flow'r,
Or lovelier than the light of morn!
When rustling in the trembling breeze,
A whisp'ring melody you sung,
I learn'd from you, sweet willow-trees,
The music that through nature rung.
A whisp'ring melody you sung,
I learn'd from you, sweet willow-trees,
The music that through nature rung.
Still, still you sing, and still you wave
Your boughs, as in those days of yore:
But some are gone;—oh, stranger, save
One for my grave,—I ask no more.
Your boughs, as in those days of yore:
But some are gone;—oh, stranger, save
One for my grave,—I ask no more.
THE BLOSSOMS OF THE SPRING.
Sweet are the fragrant blossoms of the spring,
And, as I pass, to me a thought they bring,
Pure and delightful from the trees they bear,
An odour wafted by the morning air;
And oh, how fair their colours as they shine
Dipp'd in the early dews,—thus, heart of mine,
Ere yet the griefs of life had o'er thee press'd,
Sweet hopes and happiness so kindly bless'd;
As pure and fair as these sweet flowers of spring,
So soon to die,—the tempest's offering!
And, as I pass, to me a thought they bring,
Pure and delightful from the trees they bear,
An odour wafted by the morning air;
And oh, how fair their colours as they shine
Dipp'd in the early dews,—thus, heart of mine,
Ere yet the griefs of life had o'er thee press'd,
Sweet hopes and happiness so kindly bless'd;
As pure and fair as these sweet flowers of spring,
So soon to die,—the tempest's offering!
