Pluck the fair bog-down’s head?
Or o’er the long and slender grass
String berries ripe and red?
They will!—but I shall not be there:
For me, oh! never more
Shall spring put forth her blossoms fair,
Or summer shed her store!
Yet think not, mother, if I weep,
’Tis for the seasons’ gleam;
Or if I gladden in my sleep,