To sit and watch the wavelets as they flow
Two - side by side;
To see the gliding clouds that come and
And mark them glide;
Never to see or hear her,
never to name her aloud,
but faithfully always to wait for her
and love her.
The vase where this verbena is dying
was cracked by a blow from a fan.
It must have barely brushed it,
for it made no sound.
In this world all the flow'rs wither,
The sweet songs of the birds are brief;
I dream of summers that will last
The sound of bank and water is all I hear,
The sad resignation of a weeping spring
Or a rock that hourly sheds a tear,
And the birch leaves' vague quivering.
Along the quay, the great ships,
that ride the swell in silence,
take no notice of the cradles.
that the hands of the women rock.
Ye who will help me in my dying pain,
Speak not a word: let all your voices cease.
Let me but hear some soft harmonious strain,