The years go by, but they little seem Like those within our dream; The years that stood in such luring guise, Beckoning us into Paradise, To jailers turn as time goes by...
She sat in the cottage door, and the fair June moon looked down On a face as pure as its own, an innocent face and sweet As the roses dewy white that grow so thick at her feet,...
In a waste of yellow sand, on the brow of a dreary hill, A slight little slip of a rose struggled up to the light, The seed maybe was sown there by the south wind's idle will,...