THE STARS.
Love ye the blossoms, whose rosy tints, blending,
Glow bright as the hues of our own sunny sky,
When their young buds unfolding, with fresh dew-drops bending,
Fling forth their rich breathings on each passer-by?
Glow bright as the hues of our own sunny sky,
When their young buds unfolding, with fresh dew-drops bending,
Fling forth their rich breathings on each passer-by?
Love ye the winds round our fragrant paths stealing,
The soft winds, that sigh through the long summer hours,
As they wake in the bosom, some long slumbered feeling,
Then nestle away to the hearts of the flowers?
The soft winds, that sigh through the long summer hours,
As they wake in the bosom, some long slumbered feeling,
Then nestle away to the hearts of the flowers?
Love ye those dreams, that so often steal o'er us,
When no sigh in the breast its tranquillity mars,
When visions of beauty dance gayly before us?
Yet love ye not better the stars, the bright stars?
When no sigh in the breast its tranquillity mars,
When visions of beauty dance gayly before us?
Yet love ye not better the stars, the bright stars?
Give, give me the orbs, that in brightness are beaming,
When twilight her soft silver drapery lowers;
For, when stars are shining, who, who would be dreaming,
Or listening to wild winds, or gazing on flowers!
When twilight her soft silver drapery lowers;
For, when stars are shining, who, who would be dreaming,
Or listening to wild winds, or gazing on flowers!
'T is not that the blossoms have failed to awaken
Within my young bosom sweet feelings of love,
Within my young bosom sweet feelings of love,
