Grace Miller White - "The Secret of the Storm Country"

Charles William Burkett - "Agriculture for Beginners"

Charles McCellan Stevens (AKA 'Quondam') - "The Adventures of Uncle Jeremiah and Family at the Great Fair"

Laura Lee Hope - "Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue in the Sunny South"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

T >> Thomas Moore et al >> The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore




But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise!
What meaneth that rustling spray?
"'Tis the white-horned doe," the Hunter cries,
"I have sought since break of day."
Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs,
The arrow flies from his sounding bow,
"Hilliho-hilliho!" he gayly sings,
While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe
He saw in the rustling grove,
But the bridal veil, as pure as snow,
Of his own young wedded love.
And, ah, too sure that arrow sped,
For pale at his feet he sees her lie;--
"I die, I die," was all she said,
While Echo murmured. "I die, I die!"






YOUTH AND AGE.


"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day,
To drooping Age, who crest his way.--
"It is a sunny hour of play,
"For which repentance dear doth pay;
"Repentance! Repentance!
"And this is Love, as wise men say."
"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth once more,
Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.--
"Soft as a passing summer's wind,
"Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind?
"Repentance! Repentance!
"And this is Love--when love is o'er."

"Tell me, what's Love? "said Youth again,
Trusting the bliss, but not the pain.
"Sweet as a May tree's scented air--
"Mark ye what bitter fruit 'twill bear,
"Repentance! Repentance!
"This, this is Love--sweet Youth, beware."

Just then, young Love himself came by,
And cast on Youth a smiling eye;
Who could resist that glance's ray?
In vain did Age his warning say,
"Repentance! Repentance!"
Youth laughing went with Love away.






THE DYING WARRIOR.


A wounded Chieftain, lying
By the Danube's leafy side,
Thus faintly said, in dying,
"Oh! bear, thou foaming tide.
"This gift to my lady-bride."

'Twas then, in life's last quiver,
He flung the scarf he wore
Into the foaming river,
Which, ah too quickly, bore
That pledge of one no more!

With fond impatience burning,
The Chieftain's lady stood,
To watch her love returning
In triumph down the flood,
From that day's field of blood.

But, field, alas, ill-fated!
The lady saw, instead
Of the bark whose speed she waited,
Her hero's scarf, all red
With the drops his heart had shed.

One shriek--and all was over--
Her life-pulse ceased to beat;
The gloomy waves now cover
That bridal-flower so sweet.
And the scarf is her winding sheet!






THE MAGIC MIRROR.


"Come, if thy magic Glass have power
"To call up forms we sigh to see;
"Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower,
"Where last she pledged her truth to me."

The Wizard showed him his Lady bright,
Where lone and pale in her bower she lay;
"True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight,
"She's thinking of one, who is far away."

But, lo! a page, with looks of joy,
Brings tidings to the Lady's ear;
"'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy,
"Who used to guide me to my dear."
The Lady now, from her favorite tree,
Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower:
"Such," he exclaimed, "was the gift that she
"Each morning sent me from that bower!"

She gives her page the blooming rose,
With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!"
"Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes,
"By fancying, still, her true-love nigh."
But the page returns, and--oh, what a sight,
For trusting lover's eyes to see!--
Leads to that bower another Knight,
As young and, alas, as loved as he!

"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!"
Then, darting forth, with furious bound,
Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove,
And strewed it all in fragments round.

MORAL.

Such ills would never have come to pass,
Had he ne'er sought that fatal view;
The Wizard would still have kept his Glass,
And the Knight still thought his Lady true.






THE PILGRIM.


Still thus, when twilight gleamed,
Far off his Castle seemed,
Traced on the sky;
And still, as fancy bore him.
To those dim towers before him,
He gazed, with wishful eye;
And thought his home was nigh.

"Hall of my Sires!" he said,
"How long, with weary tread,
"Must I toil on?
"Each eve, as thus I wander,
"Thy towers seem rising yonder,
"But, scarce hath daylight shone,
"When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!"

So went the Pilgrim still,
Down dale and over hill,
Day after day;
That glimpse of home, so cheering,
At twilight still appearing,
But still, with morning's ray,
Melting, like mist, away!

Where rests the Pilgrim now?
Here, by this cypress bough,
Closed his career;
That dream, of fancy's weaving,
No more his steps deceiving,
Alike past hope and fear,
The Pilgrim's home is here.






THE HIGH-BORN LADYE.


In vain all the Knights to the Underwald wooed her,
Tho' brightest of maidens, the proudest was she;
Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her,
But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

"Whosoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling,
"That Knight must the conqueror of conquerors be;
"He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in:--
"None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her
On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree;
Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,
And worshipt at distance the high-born Ladye.

At length came a Knight, from a far land to woo her,
With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea;
His visor was down--but, with voice that thrilled thro her,
He whispered his vows to the high-born Ladye.

"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee,
"In me the great conqueror of conquerors see;
"Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee,
"And mine, thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!"

The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her,
Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she;
And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed her
In pomp to his home, of that highborn Ladye.

"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you, led me?
"Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress tree;
"Is _this_ the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?"
With scorn in her glance said the high-born Ladye.

"Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures"--
Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;
But she sunk on the ground--'twas a skeleton's features
And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!






THE INDIAN BOAT.


'Twas midnight dark,
The seaman's bark,
Swift o'er the waters bore him,
When, thro' the night,
He spied a light
Shoot o'er the wave before him.
"A sail! a sail!" he cries;
"She comes from the Indian shore
"And to-night shall be our prize,
"With her freight of golden ore;
"Sail on! sail on!"
When morning shone
He saw the gold still clearer;
But, though so fast
The waves he past
That boat seemed never the nearer.

Bright daylight came,
And still the same
Rich bark before him floated;
While on the prize
His wishful eyes
Like any young lover's doted:
"More sail! more sail!" he cries,
While the waves overtop the mast;
And his bounding galley flies,
Like an arrow before the blast.
Thus on, and on,
Till day was gone,
And the moon thro' heaven did hie her,
He swept the main,
But all in vain,
That boat seemed never the nigher.

And many a day
To night gave way,
And many a morn succeeded:
While still his flight,
Thro day and night,
That restless mariner speeded.
Who knows--who knows what seas
He is now careering o'er?
Behind, the eternal breeze,
And that mocking bark, before!
For, oh, till sky
And earth shall die,
And their death leave none to rue it,
That boat must flee
O'er the boundless sea,
And that ship in vain pursue it.






THE STRANGER.


Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger
Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground;
Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger
Hears soft fairy music re-echo around.

None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady,
Her language, tho' sweet, none could e'er understand;
But her features so sunned, and her eyelash so shady,
Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.

'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping,
A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears;
So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping,
Like music that Sorrow had steeped in her tears.

We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung us;--
But, soon as the day-beams had gushed from on high,
With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us,
All lovely and lone, as if strayed from the sky.

Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended,
For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue,
Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended,
And light from another already shines through.

Then her eyes, when she sung--oh, but once to have seen them--
Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart;
While her looks and her voice made a language between them,
That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.

But she past like a day-dream, no skill could restore her--
Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast;
She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her.
That song of past days on her lips to the last.

Not even in the grave is her sad heart reposing--
Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb;
For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing,
The same strain of music is heard thro' the gloom.








BALLADS, SONGS, ETC.






TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.


To-day, dearest! is ours;
Why should Love carelessly lose it?
This life shines or lowers
Just as we, weak mortals, use it.
'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay,
To think of the thorns of Sorrow
And Joy, if left on the stem to-day,
May wither before to-morrow.

Then why, dearest! so long
Let the sweet moments fly over?
Tho' now, blooming and young
Thou hast me devoutly thy lover;
Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse,
Some treasure may steal or borrow;
Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps,
Or I less in love to-morrow.






WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.


When on the lip the sigh delays,
As if 'twould linger there for ever;
When eyes would give the world to gaze,
Yet still look down and venture never;
When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove,
There's one we dream of more than any--
If all this is not real love,
'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart,
On all we've got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,
Sit mute and listen to their beating:
To see but one bright object move,
The only moon, where stars are many--
If all this is not downright love,
I prithee say what _is_, my Fanny!

When Hope foretells the brightest, best,
Tho' Reason on the darkest reckons;
When Passion drives us to the west,
Tho' Prudence to the eastward beckons;
When all turns round, below, above,
And our own heads the most of any--
If this is not stark, staring love,
Then you and I are sages, Fanny.






HERE, TAKE MY HEART.


Here, take my heart--'twill be safe in thy keeping,
While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea;
Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,
What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love,
They who have light hearts the happiest be,
Then happier still must be they who have none, love.
And that will be _my_ case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover,
I care not how many bright eyes I may see;
Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her,
I'd tell her I couldn't--my heart is with thee.

And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder--
For, even should Fortune turn truant to me,
Why, let her go--I've a treasure beyond her,
As long as my heart's out at interest With thee!






OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.


Oh, call it by some better name,
For Friendship sounds too cold,
While Love is now a worldly flame,
Whose shrine must be of gold:
And Passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o'er all he sees,
Awhile as warm will set as soon--
Then call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far,
More free from stain of clay
Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,
Yet human, still as they:
And if thy lip, for love like this,
No mortal word can frame,
Go, ask of angels what it is,
And call it by that name!






POOR WOUNDED HEART


Poor wounded heart, farewell!
Thy hour of rest is come;
Thou soon wilt reach thy home,
Poor wounded heart, farewell!
The pain thou'lt feel in breaking
Less bitter far will be,
Than that long, deadly aching,
This life has been to thee.

There--broken heart, farewell!
The pang is o'er--
The parting pang is o'er;
Thou now wilt bleed no more.
Poor broken heart, farewell!
No rest for thee but dying--
Like waves whose strife is past,
On death's cold shore thus lying,
Thou sleepst in peace at last--
Poor broken heart, farewell!






THE EAST INDIAN.


Come, May, with all thy flowers,
Thy sweetly-scented thorn,
Thy cooling evening showers,
The fragrant breath at morn:
When, May-flies haunt the willow,
When May-buds tempt the bee,
Then o'er the shining billow
My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she's winging
Thro' watery wilds her way,
And on her cheek is bringing
The bright sun's orient ray:
Oh, come and court her hither,
Ye breezes mild and warm--
One winter's gale would wither
So soft, so pure a form.

The fields where she was straying
Are blest with endless light,
With zephyrs always playing
Thro' gardens always bright.
Then now, sweet May! be sweeter
Than e'er, thou'st been before;
Let sighs from roses meet her
When she comes near our shore.






POOR BROKEN FLOWER.


Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee?
Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath--
In vain the sunbeams seek
To warm that faded cheek;
The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee;
Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,--
Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;
In vain the smiles of all
Like sunbeams round her fall:
The only smile that could from death awaken her,
That smile, alas! is gone to others now.






THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.


Being weary of love,
I flew to the grove,
And chose me a tree of the fairest;
Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree,
"Thou my mistress shall be,
"And I'll worship each bud thou bearest.
"For the hearts of this world are hollow,
"And fickle the smiles we follow;
"And 'tis sweet, when all
"Their witcheries pall
"To have a pure love to fly to:
"So, my pretty Rose-tree,
"Thou my mistress shalt be,
"And the only one now I shall sigh to."

When the beautiful hue
Of thy cheek thro' the dew
Of morning is bashfully peeping,
"Sweet tears," I shall say
(As I brush them away),
"At least there's no art in this weeping"
Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow;
'Twill not be from pain or sorrow;
And the thorns of thy stem
Are not like them
With which men wound each other;
So, my pretty Rose-tree,
Thou my mistress shalt be
And I'll never again sigh to another.






SHINE OUT, STARS!


Shine out, Stars! let Heaven assemble
Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
All to grace this Eve of May.
Let the flower-beds all lie waking,
And the odors shut up there,
From their downy prisons breaking,
Fly abroad thro sea and air.

And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness,
With our other joys to weave,
Oh what glory, what completeness,
Then would crown this bright May Eve!
Shine out, Stars! let night assemble
Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
To adorn this Eve of May.






THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.

Oh, the joys of our evening posada,
Where, resting, at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
Sit and sing the sunshine away;
So merry, that even the slumbers
That round us hung seem gone;
Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers
Again beguile them on.
Oh the joys, etc.

Then as each to his loved sultana
In sleep still breathes the sigh,
The name of some black-eyed Tirana,
Escapes our lips as we lie.
Till, with morning's rosy twinkle,
Again we're up and gone--
While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle
Beguiles the rough way on.
Oh the joys of our merry posada,
Where, resting at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
Thus sing the gay moments away.






TELL HER, OH, TELL HER.


Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying
Beneath the green arbor is still lying there;
And breezes like lovers around it are sighing,
But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,
Beside the green arbor she playfully set,
As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing,
And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

So while away from that arbor forsaken,
The maiden is wandering, still let her be
As true as the lute that no sighing can waken
And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!






NIGHTS OF MUSIC.


Nights of music, nights of loving,
Lost too soon, remembered long.
When we went by moonlight roving,
Hearts all love and lips all song.
When this faithful lute recorded
All my spirit felt to thee;
And that smile the song rewarded--
Worth Whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor,
Filled with joys too sweet to last--
Joys that, like the star-light, tender,
While they shore no shadow cast.
Tho' all other happy hours
From my fading memory fly,
Of, that starlight, of those bowers,
Not a beam, a leaf may die!






OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE.


Our first young love resembles
That short but brilliant ray,
Which smiles and weeps and trembles
Thro' April's earliest day.
And not all life before us,
Howe'er its lights may play,
Can shed a lustre o'er us
Like that first April ray.

Our summer sun may squander
A blaze serener, grander;
Our autumn beam
May, like a dream
Of heaven, die calm away;
But no--let life before us
Bring all the light it may,
'Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er us
Like that first youthful ray.






BLACK AND BLUE EYES.


The brilliant black eye
May in triumph let fly
All its darts without Caring who feels 'em;
But the soft eye of blue,
Tho' it scatter wounds too,
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em--
Dear Fanny!
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.

The black eye may say,
"Come and worship my ray--
"By adoring, perhaps you may move me!"
But the blue eye, half hid,
Says from under its lid,
"I love and am yours, if you love me!"
Yes, Fanny!
The blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,
"I love and am yours, if you love me!"

Come tell me, then, why
In that lovely blue eye
Not a charm of its tint I discover;
Oh why should you wear
The only blue pair
That ever said "No" to a lover?
Dear Fanny!
Oh, why should you wear
The only blue pair
That ever said "No" to a lover?






DEAR FANNY.


"She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool;
"She has wit, but you mustn't be caught, so;"
Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool,
And 'tis not the first time I have thought so,
Dear Fanny.
'Tis not the first time I have thought so.

"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly;
"'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season;"
Thus Love has advised me and who will deny
That Love reasons much better than Reason,
Dear Fanny?
Love reasons much better than Reason.






FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.


From life without freedom, say, who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?
Hark!--hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave,
The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding--haste, haste to her aid;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains--
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.
And oh, even if Freedom from _this_ world be driven,
Despair not--at least we shall find her in heaven.






HERE'S THE BOWER.


Here's the bower she loved so much,
And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch--
Oh, how that touch enchanted!
Roses now unheeded sigh;
Where's the hand to wreathe them?
Songs around neglected lie;
Where's the lip to breathe them?
Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;
Time, that once so fleetly moved,
Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she strayed,
Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid,
Nor Pity wept a dearer!
Here's the bower, etc.






I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR.

A FINLAND LOVE SONG.


I saw the moon rise clear
O'er hills and vales of snow
Nor told my fleet reindeer
The track I wished to go.
Yet quick he bounded forth;
For well my reindeer knew
I've but one path on earth--
The path which leads to you.

The gloom that winter cast,
How soon the heart forgets,
When summer brings, at last,
Her sun that never sets!
So dawned my love for you;
So, fixt thro' joy and pain,
Than summer sun more true,
'Twill never set again.






LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL.


Young Love found a Dial once in a dark shade
Where man ne'er had wandered nor sunbeam played;
"Why thus in darkness lie?" whispered young Love,
"Thou, whose gay hours in sunshine should move."
"I ne'er," said the Dial, "have seen the warm sun,
"So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one."

Then Love took the Dial away from the shade,
And placed her where Heaven's beam warmly played.
There she reclined, beneath Love's gazing eye,
While, marked all with sunshine, her hours flew by.
"Oh, how," said the Dial, "can any fair maid
"That's born to be shone upon rest in the shade?"

But night now comes on and the sunbeam's o'er,
And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more.
Alone and neglected, while bleak rain and winds
Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds
That Love had but numbered a few sunny hours,--
Then left the remainder to darkness and showers!






LOVE AND TIME.


'Tis said--but whether true or not
Let bards declare who've seen 'em--
That Love and Time have only got
One pair of wings between 'em.
In Courtship's first delicious hour,
The boy full oft can spare 'em;
So, loitering in his lady's bower,
He lets the gray-beard wear 'em.
Then is Time's hour of play;
Oh, how be flies, flies away!

But short the moments, short as bright,
When he the wings can borrow;
If Time to-day has had his flight,
Love takes his turn to-morrow.
Ah! Time and Love, your change is then
The saddest and most trying,
When one begins to limp again,
And t'other takes to flying.
Then is Love's hour to stray;
Oh, how he flies, flies away!

But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel,
And bless the silken fetter,
Who knows, the dear one, how to deal
With Love and Time much better.
So well she checks their wanderings,
So peacefully she pairs 'em,
That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings,
And Time for ever wears 'em.
This is Time's holiday;
Oh, how he flies, flies away!






LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD.


Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us--
Youth may wither, but feeling will last;
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us
Love's light summer-cloud only shall cast.
Oh, if to love thee more
Each hour I number o'er--
If this a passion be
Worthy of thee,
Then be happy, for thus I adore thee.
Charms may wither, but feeling shall last:
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee,
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.
Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee,
Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal;
Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee,
Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel.
Oh, if there be a charm,
In love, to banish harm--
If pleasure's truest spell
Be to love well,
Then be happy, for thus I adore thee,
Charms may wither, but feeling shall last;
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee.
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.






LOVE, WANDERING THRO' THE GOLDEN MAZE.


Love, wandering through the golden maze
Of my beloved's hair,
Traced every lock with fond delays,
And, doting, lingered there.
And soon he found 'twere vain to fly;
His heart was close confined,
For, every ringlet was a tie--
A chain by beauty twined.






MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH.

(THE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY.)


Merrily every bosom boundeth,
Merrily, oh!
Where the song of Freedom soundeth,
Merrily oh!
There the warrior's arms
Shed more splendor;
There the maiden's charm's
Shine more tender;
Every joy the land surroundeth,
Merrily, oh! merrily, oh!

Wearily every bosom pineth,
Wearily, oh!
Where the bond of slavery twineth
Wearily, oh
There the warrior's dart
Hath no fleetness;
There the maiden's heart
Hath no sweetness--
Every flower of life declineth,
Wearily, oh! wearily, oh!

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