Must he toil beneath the sun Who has nothing else to do? What’s the use of such a one? I know not—pray do you? Skies are not aflame for him; He converses not with elves; Primroses on river’s brim Can be nothing but themselves.
Need he interfere with me,
Who care only to be blest?
Go thy way, unhappy bee,
Leave a butterfly at rest.
Butterflies with painted wings
Are a part of Nature’s plan;
Is not every bird that sings,
Wiser than a busy man?
Harry’s rich tenor delighteth my
Oft as I hear it; ’tis ever the same;
Brings to my eyes a soft soupcon of tears,
Sends from my heart little thrills through my frame.
Speaks to me,
Sure I may reply to it;
When the skies
Catch my eyes,
I must smile a little bit.
When the trees
Try to please
With their buds and blossoms new,
Shall I dare
Not to care
For a world so bright and true?
Tell me why
Sorrow ever comes between?
Is it you,
Is it you, my earth so green?
Is it there
In the air
That you neither of you touch?
Is the wind
When I love its kiss so much?
Earth or sea,
Skies or breezes as they move,
Earth is sweet
’Neath my feet,
Heaven sweeter yet above;
And the air
Is the sweetest of the three;
I will take,
For their sake,
Anything they bring to me!
Men flocking round me, I find I’m
Praise is as sweet as a gratified whim;
When a girl pleases she never feels tir’d—
Harry smiles at me, and I smile at him.
Through the open doors of a crystal dome
Sweet is the scent of the tropical flowers,
The splendid exiles who, banish’d from home,
Are sparkling and shining to gladden ours.
Figures appearing ’mid blossom and fruit,
In an airy, fairy, magical way;
Their lips keep moving altho’ they are mute
For ears too distant to hear what they say.
From a lily bud can a voice be sent?—
’Let us hope the Captain’s wild oats are sown;
A pretty young wife should make him content’—
Only a word in a soft-spoken tone!
Moving serenely ’mid beauty and
Am not I born for the glittering throng?
Treading on roses with delicate feet,
Is not a life a perpetual treat?
Can we be more than delighted and blest?
Pleasure is beautiful—is it the best?
Highest and best that our nature can know?
Answer my heart—and my heart answers No.
And my heart answers, ’more beautiful yet
Life is for those who leave Home with regret,
And greet it again as the sailor greets shore,
Gaily returning to life gone before.’