 | Fantasy and Passion |  |
FANTAISIE DE PRINTEMPS.
In the aisles of the orchard fair blossoms are drifting,
The white petals drop one by one,
And the tulip's pale stalk from the garden is lifting
A goblet of gems to the sun!
The white petals drop one by one,
And the tulip's pale stalk from the garden is lifting
A goblet of gems to the sun!
Come ramble awhile through this exquisite weather
Of days that are fleet to pass,
When the stem of the willow shoots out a green feather,
And buttercups burn in the grass!
Of days that are fleet to pass,
When the stem of the willow shoots out a green feather,
And buttercups burn in the grass!
When, pushing the soil from her bonny pink shoulders,
The clover glides forth to the world,
And the fresh mosses gleam on the gray rugged boulders,
With delicate May-dew impearled!
The clover glides forth to the world,
And the fresh mosses gleam on the gray rugged boulders,
With delicate May-dew impearled!
The brook in the pasture has hidden its pebbles,
Full-flooded with April rain,
And listen, my love, to the silvery trebles
That ring from the blossoming lane!
Full-flooded with April rain,
And listen, my love, to the silvery trebles
That ring from the blossoming lane!
What vows to their sweethearts the gay robins utter!
No marvel such wooers are heard!
Heigh ho! how the bosoms that scorn us would flutter,
If man could make love like a bird!
No marvel such wooers are heard!
Heigh ho! how the bosoms that scorn us would flutter,
If man could make love like a bird!
| Fantasy and Passion | |