 | Fantasy and Passion |  |
188
V. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
Now that we know him dead, conjecture brings
The marvelling fancies it can ill control;
We picture in some last fair dreamy goal
Him round whose name such dreamy influence clings.
In some strange land that teems with butterfly-wings,
Flower-cradled fairies, elf-shapes grimly droll,
We see his calm and incontaminate soul
Walk with delight amid miraculous things!
The marvelling fancies it can ill control;
We picture in some last fair dreamy goal
Him round whose name such dreamy influence clings.
In some strange land that teems with butterfly-wings,
Flower-cradled fairies, elf-shapes grimly droll,
We see his calm and incontaminate soul
Walk with delight amid miraculous things!
And yet, although his dear Valhalla lies
At happiest distance from all earthly harms,
We are sure he will not love its choicest charms
Unless, however opulent, these comprise
Children, with shining hair, with limpid eyes,
To enwreathe him in their balmy rosy arms!
At happiest distance from all earthly harms,
We are sure he will not love its choicest charms
Unless, however opulent, these comprise
Children, with shining hair, with limpid eyes,
To enwreathe him in their balmy rosy arms!
| Fantasy and Passion | |