aspirations.
19
VI.
My soul is like a fragile flower,
Whose cup the sky so full has filled
With dew, that earthwards it must lower
Its head, till half the wealth is spilled.
Whose cup the sky so full has filled
With dew, that earthwards it must lower
Its head, till half the wealth is spilled.
Thus hast thou showered on me, my Heaven,
Such glorious bliss without alloy;
My heart, it bends 'neath bounty given,
And overbrims in tears of joy.
Such glorious bliss without alloy;
My heart, it bends 'neath bounty given,
And overbrims in tears of joy.
