In the garden where thou go'st,
There art thou the rose of roses,
First of lilies, fragrant most
Of the fragrant posies.
When thou movest in the dance,
All the stars with thee are moving
And around thee gleam and glance,
Never tired of loving.
Night!—and would the night were here!
Yet the moon would lose her duty;
Though her sheen be soft and clear,
Softer is thy beauty!
Fair, and kind, and gentle one!
Do not moon, and stars, and flowers
Pay that homage to their sun,
That we pay to ours?
Sun of mine, that art so dear—
Sun, that art above all sorrow!
Shine, I pray thee, on me here
Till the eternal morrow!
FLOWER-SALUTE.
This nosegay,—'twas I dressed it,—
Greets thee a thousand times!
Oft stooped I, and caressed it,
Ah! full a thousand times,
And 'gainst my bosom pressed it,
A hundred thousand times!
