THE crimson roses burn and glow, Softly the dark leaves stir and shake, And I am in the grass awake, Oh, wert thou here ... For soon the mid of night will break! Into the lake the moonbeams flow, The garden-gate hides her from view, The moveless willows stand arow, My burning forehead seeks the dew; Oh, I have never loved thee so! Oh, I have never so deeply known As often as our close embrace Made each the other, why thy face Grew pallid and thy heart made moan When all my being sought thy grace. And now—oh, hadst thou seen how there Two little fire-flies crept alow, I never more from thee will fare, Oh, wert thou here, Or still the crimson roses glow. |