1. |
2. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
3. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
4. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
6. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
7. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
8. |
9. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. | [VII. Little daisy, go to bed] |
8. |
10. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
11. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
A lover's diary | ||
205
[VII. Little daisy, go to bed]
Little daisy, go to bed!
I hear the winds say as they pass,
“Draw your white face under the grass,—
Make of the leaves about you spread,
Brown and yellow, a coverled.”
Little daisy, go to bed!
I hear the winds say as they pass,
“Draw your white face under the grass,—
Make of the leaves about you spread,
Brown and yellow, a coverled.”
Little daisy, go to bed!
Without either sigh or tear,
Little daisy, say good by
To your sweetheart up in the sky,—
He will come again next year,
And your sisters will appear
All attired in dainty white,—
Kiss him now, and say good night.
Little daisy, say good by
To your sweetheart up in the sky,—
He will come again next year,
And your sisters will appear
All attired in dainty white,—
Kiss him now, and say good night.
206
Early in the month of May,
When the willow trims her head,
Round and round with tassels gay,
You shall have a wedding-day,
And the clover's angry-red
All shall turn to see you wed;
So in patience go to bed.
When the willow trims her head,
Round and round with tassels gay,
You shall have a wedding-day,
And the clover's angry-red
All shall turn to see you wed;
So in patience go to bed.
Then in every leafy bush
There shall be a rustling sweet,
And your pleasure to complete,
When you with your lover meet,
With a sympathetic blush
Each young rose your joy will greet;
So to bed away, away!
And be ready for the May.
There shall be a rustling sweet,
And your pleasure to complete,
When you with your lover meet,
With a sympathetic blush
Each young rose your joy will greet;
So to bed away, away!
And be ready for the May.
A lover's diary | ||