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PAST AND PRESENT.
But if I were a robin,
Or the south-wind, soft and low,
Or the little gliding streamlet,
Or a modest daisy blow,
Mother, I could not slumber
Upon your snowy breast;
Your kisses would not soothe me
In the night-time into rest.
Or the south-wind, soft and low,
Or the little gliding streamlet,
Or a modest daisy blow,
Mother, I could not slumber
Upon your snowy breast;
Your kisses would not soothe me
In the night-time into rest.
So I'd rather be your darling
Than anything on earth,—
I'm happy as the happiest thing
That ever had a birth!
I'd not be bird or streamlet,
South-wind or daisy pearl;
But let me stay here, mother dear,
And be your little girl.
Than anything on earth,—
I'm happy as the happiest thing
That ever had a birth!
I'd not be bird or streamlet,
South-wind or daisy pearl;
But let me stay here, mother dear,
And be your little girl.
PAST AND PRESENT.
What has life lost of its old royal grace,
That even the flowers whisper to me of death?
Perhaps because they laid them on his face,—
His pale, cold face they warmed not with their breath.
The musky odor, sweet to stifling pain,
Brings back that hour of mute despair again.
That even the flowers whisper to me of death?
Perhaps because they laid them on his face,—
His pale, cold face they warmed not with their breath.
The musky odor, sweet to stifling pain,
Brings back that hour of mute despair again.
And, memory once aroused, how many things
Return to us we cast forth long ago!
Return to us we cast forth long ago!
