« 前へ次へ »
Not sweet to smell, nor fair to sight,
THERE is a little and a pretty flower,
Sweet was the fancy of those antique ages That put a heart in every stirring leaf, Writing deep morals upon Nature's pages, Turning sweet flowers into deathless sages, To calm our joy and sanctify our grief.
And gladly would I know the man or child,
Fain would I know, and yet I can but guess,
Did a kind maid, that thought her lover all
But were I good and holy as a saint,