Far above the hollow
Tempest, and its moan,
Singeth bright Apollo
In his golden zone,—
Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep,—
A tender infant with its curtain'd eye,
Breathing as it would neither live nor die
Summer is gone on swallows' wings,
And Earth has buried all her flowers:
No more the lark,—the linnet—sings,
Our hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again.
Friends, if we have ever been,
Friends we cannot now remain:
The stars are with the voyager
Wherever he may sail;
The moon is constant to her time;
Some sigh for this and that,
My wishes don't go far;
The world may wag at will,
So I have my cigar.
Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how
I wake and passionate watches keep;
And yet while I address thee now,
Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep.
Paery, my man! has thy brave leg
Yet struck its foot against th ...
Spring it is cheery,
Winter is dreary,
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;
When he's forsaken,