Her little brow was smooth and white,
Her merry eyes were closed,
She smiled, as though some heavenly sprite
Whispered as she reposed.
She looked so pure, so white, so fair
Below the ominous flowers,
She seemed a blossom plucked from care
To bloom in heavenly bowers.
And oh, the whelming flood of pain,
The sudden sense of dearth!
We kissed her o’er and o’er again,
And brought her back to earth.
THE ROSEBUD.
In my garden a rosebud is growing, is growing,
So fast, ’twill be blossoming soon.
Around it the zephyrs are balmily blowing,
The sweet scented zephyrs of June,
Of June,
The odorous zephyrs of June.
My love shall watch o’er, and protect, and protect it,
While shyly its petals unfold.
The bees shall not rob nor the canker affect it,
Nor night make it tremble with cold,
With cold,
Nor night make it shudder with cold.
And when it is blown, I’ll bear it, I’ll bear it
To her whom I worship alone.
On her beauteous bosom she’ll lay it and wear it
And rival its charms by her own,
Her own,
And shame all its grace by her own.