 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
THIS FLOWER, IT BLOOMS 'MID A RUIN.
This flower, it blooms 'mid a ruin,
But its sweet is more precious to me
Than the wreaths which thy fortune is strewing
Round the shaft of thy family tree;
For it speaks to my soul of the blessing
Which in deepest of wo was my gain,
That love, which mine own is possessing,
And for which thine hath striven in vain!
But its sweet is more precious to me
Than the wreaths which thy fortune is strewing
Round the shaft of thy family tree;
For it speaks to my soul of the blessing
Which in deepest of wo was my gain,
That love, which mine own is possessing,
And for which thine hath striven in vain!
Thou may'st joy in the splendor around thee,
The state which makes gallant thy halls;
In the crowd that with homage surround thee,
And exult when thy enemy falls!—
I turn from the sting of their malice,
And envy no pomp which is thine;
I look from the lights in thy palace,
To the one in this low cot of mine.
The state which makes gallant thy halls;
In the crowd that with homage surround thee,
And exult when thy enemy falls!—
I turn from the sting of their malice,
And envy no pomp which is thine;
I look from the lights in thy palace,
To the one in this low cot of mine.
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |