In summer-time when Mary bathes And floats along as in a sky O might I be the stream that swathes Her beauty with infinity! O might I be that stealing song The brown bird sings her from above While in the dark wood, late and long, She listens, and forgets to love! Or else the rose, the rose that bends To Mary, all its soul to give, And on her dreamy bosom spends The only day it has to live! |