LITTLE blossoms, unpretentious flowrets, From the forest border or the meadow, Red and white and blue and yellow flowrets Did I gather as I wandered homeward. Happy memories of youth came back then; In the fields the grass was softly waving, From an alder bush the goldfinch warbled,— What a world of innocence he sang there For us two! Many years now have your hands been weaving Strings of pearls and roses in your tresses. Sweetlier though the little flowers adorned you, Dearest wife, which once we used to gather,— I and you! |