HIS SONG.
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 ears
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.
MY SONG.
When the sea
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?
Earth and sky,
Tell me why
Sorrow ever comes between?
Is it you,
Heaven blue?
Is it you, my earth so green?
Is it there
In the air
That you neither of you touch?
Is the wind
So unkind
When I love its kiss so much?
Let it be
Earth or sea,
Skies or breezes as they move,
Earth is sweet
'Neath my feet,
Heaven sweeter yet above;
And the air
Ev'rywhere
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 admir'd;
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.
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