 | English Roses |  |
75
A YEAR AFTER.
Is it true, is it dreaming, my dear?
Is it night, is it day?
You were with me a blessing, last year—
But my pet would not stay;
For she felt her wings growing,
She found new life flowing
And a stronger love called her away.
Ah, the buttercup meadow,
It is now but a shadow,
Where you and I often would play.
Is it true, is it dreaming, my dear?
Is it night, is it day?
Is it night, is it day?
You were with me a blessing, last year—
But my pet would not stay;
For she felt her wings growing,
She found new life flowing
And a stronger love called her away.
Ah, the buttercup meadow,
It is now but a shadow,
Where you and I often would play.
Is it true, is it dreaming, my dear?
Is it night, is it day?
Is it winter or summer. my dear?
Is it day, is it night?
For I hear not those beautiful feet,
Making sound more than sight.
Were I only a swallow
I would swift be and follow,
And carry the Spring in my flight.
I should meet, where the rose's
Bridal bosom uncloses
To the honeybee's kiss, my delight.
Is it winter or summer, my sweet?
Is it day, is it night?
Is it day, is it night?
For I hear not those beautiful feet,
Making sound more than sight.
Were I only a swallow
I would swift be and follow,
And carry the Spring in my flight.
I should meet, where the rose's
Bridal bosom uncloses
To the honeybee's kiss, my delight.
Is it winter or summer, my sweet?
Is it day, is it night?
| English Roses | |