Ye shall not steal this day, For love has risen to my aid, See, I am brave and undismayed! Hence—hence! all things must pass away, Back to your graves, obscure and deep! I read aloud love's prayer, Lift not again your haunting eyes T'wards my new-found Paradise, Lie still beside my lost despair, And I command you—Sleep, Sleep, Sleep!
Baby, with those solemn eyes And that yellow hair You are very, very wise, Baby dear, I'll swear!
Give me, sweet, your chubby hand, Whisper in my ear, Since you seem to understand Much that is not clear.
If you'll sit upon my knee, Baby, for awhile, All that's sad shall go from me, Vanquish'd by a smile.
Very humbly will I learn That which you can teach, Life's great problems, each in turn Solved in lisping speech.
You're so near to God, I feel Poor and incomplete, Just as though I ought to kneel, Dear, and kiss your feet.
"O Lady mine!" one day I cried, "Pray make for me a posy, That I may think when from your side On your young mouth so rosy."
"Nay, gentle sir," the damsel said, "The blossoms I deny you, But take my willing lips instead, If they will satisfy you!"
And then she kissed me where I stood, And may the saints defend her— Ne'er grew a flower in field or wood One half so sweet and tender.
Butterfly, butterfly, where are you going? "Over the roses into the sky." Butterfly, butterfly, there is no knowing When you'll come back again, so good-bye!
Butterfly, butterfly, summer is glowing, But with the winter you too must die, And your frail soul will be gently blowing Upward to God on a rose's sigh. Butterfly, butterfly, butterfly!
Our little love is newly born, And shall I say good-bye? For if I go, perchance ere dawn Our little love will die!
I'd better stay and help it grow, Since it is yours and mine, Until this little love we know Becomes a love divine.
The wind has shaken the lilac trees, And scattered their purple bloom, The wind has harassed the honey bees, And robbed the flowers of their melodies, The wind has gathered a host of clouds, And smitten the earth with gloom.
The wind has blown out the golden lights That hang from laburnum boughs, Till nude and stripped of their past delights The branches sigh through the stormy nights, Like nuns who weep for their buried youth, And murmur their mournful vows.