His sweet rose here oversea
I must gather sadly;
Which, beloved, unto thee
I would bring how gladly!
But alas! if o'er the foam
I this flower should carry,
It would fade ere I could come;
Roses may not tarry.
Farther let no mortal fare
Who would be a wooer,
Than unwithered he may bear
Blushing roses to her,
Or than nightingale may fly
For her nesting grasses,
Or than with the west wind's sigh
Her soft warbling passes.
* * * * *
THE THREE GIPSIES[20]
Three gipsy men I saw one day
Stretched out on the grass together,
As wearily o'er the sandy way
My wagon brushed the heather.
The first of the three was fiddling there
In the glow of evening pallid,
Playing a wild and passionate air,
The tune of some gipsy ballad.
From the second's pipe the smoke-wreaths curled,
He watched them melt at his leisure.
So full of content, it seemed the world
Had naught to add to his pleasure.
And what of the third?—He was fast asleep,
His harp to a bough confided;
The breezes across the strings did sweep,
A dream o'er his heart-strings glided.