Twelve Songs , opus 12

I.
 I little know or care
 If the blackbird on the bough
 Is filling all the air
 With his soft crescendo now;
    For she is gone away,
    And when she went she took
    The springtime in her look,
    The peachblow on her cheek,
    The laughter from the brook,
    The blue from out the May -
    And what she calls a week
    Is forever and a day!

II.
 It's little that I mind
 How the blossoms, pink or white,
 At every touch of wind
 Fall a-trembling with delight;
    For in the leafy lane,
    Beneath the garden boughs,
    And through the silent house
    One thing alone I seek.
    Until she come again
    The May is not the May,
    And what she calls a week
    Is forever and a day!

— This text is not currently
in the database but will be added
as soon as we obtain it. —

This little blossom from afar
Hath come from other lands to thine;
For, once, its white and drooping star
Could see its shadow in the Rhine.

Perchance some fair-haired German maid
Hath plucked one from the selfsame stalk,
And numbered over, half afraid,
Its petals in her evening walk.

'He loves me, loves me not,' she cries;
'He loves me more than earth or heaven!'
And then glad tears have filled her eyes
To find the number was uneven.

And thou must count its petals well,
Because it is a gift from me;
And the last one of all shall tell
Something I've often told to thee.

But here at home, where we were born,
Thou wilt find blossoms just as true,
Down-bending every summer morn,
With freshness of New England dew.

For Nature, ever kind to love,
Hath granted them the same sweet tongue,
Whether with German skies above,
Or here our granite rocks among.