XLIX.
Thou seemest like a flower,
So pure and fair and bright;
A melancholy yearning
Steals o'er me at thy sight.
I fain would lay in blessing
My hands upon thy hair,
Imploring God to keep thee,
So bright, and pure, and fair.
L.
Child, I must be very careful,
For thy soul would surely perish,
If the loved heart in thy bosom
Love for me should ever cherish.
But the task proves all too easy,
Strange regrets begin to move me.
Meanwhile many a time I whisper:
"If I could but make her love me!"
LI.
When on my couch reclining,
Buried in pillows and night,
There hovers then before me
A form of grace and light.
As soon as quiet slumber
Has closed my weary eyes,
Then softly does the image
Within my dream arise.