To be there even when I dream.

And his heart trembling beats with bliss
If I but throw him one small kiss
Just as I now throw this, and this




To the Rose in her hair.

Poor little rose, I pity you--
Sweet as Oporto's wind when fruity--
Tortured an evil hour or two,
Just to adorn a wilful beauty.

I know her well, too well, alas!
(Just watch the fairy as she dances.)
She wears my heart--but let that pass;
It's dead: she killed it with her glances.

Your fate, poor rose, is such as mine,--
To be despised when you are faded;
Yet she's an angel--too divine
To be by you or me upbraided.




Her Reverie.