Among flowers

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Love in a rose bush sleeping lay,
Spring came and sang a merry lay;
Love hears her voice, no more he sleeps,
Then smiling from the rose bud peeps,
But thinks too soon it were to rise,
And gently closed again his eyes.

But Spring relaxed not, spite of thorn
She waked him with a kiss each morn,
Caressed him till the close of day,
Till to his heart she found the way,
Till her soft longings were allayed,
And every sunbeam's smile repaid. 

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It's O my heart, my heart,
  To be out in the sun and sing --
To sing and shout in the fields about,
  In the balm and the blossoming!
 
Sing loud, O bird in the tree;
  O bird, sing loud in the sky,
And honey-bees, blacken the clover beds --
  There is none of you glad as I.
 
The leaves laugh low in the wind,
  Laugh low, with the wind at play;
And the odorous call of the flowers all
  Entices my soul away!
 
For O but the world is fair, is fair --
  And O but the world is sweet!
I will out in the gold of the blossoming mould,
  And sit at the Master's feet.
 
And the love my heart would speak,
  I will fold in the lily's rim,
That th' lips of the blossom, more pure and meek,
  May offer it up to Him.
 
Then sing in the hedgerow green, O thrush,
  O skylark, sing in the blue;
Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear,
  And my soul shall sing with you!

Young Love lived once in an humble shed,
Where roses breathing
And woodbines wreathing
Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourished,
For young Hope nourished
The infant buds with beams and showers;
But lips, through blooming, must be fed,
And not even Love can live on flowers.
Alas! that Poverty's evil eye
Should e'er come hither such sweets to wither!
The flowers laid down their head to die,
And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.
She came one morning,
Ere Love had warning,
And raised the latch, where the young god lay;
"Oh ho!" said Love, "is it you? good bye;"
So he opened the window and flew away.

In the embers shining bright
A garden grows for thy delight,
With roses yellow, red, and white.

But, O my child, beware, beware!
Touch not the roses growing there,
For every rose a thorn doth bear. 

On the wild rose tree
Many buds there be,
Yet each sunny hour
Hath but one perfect flower.

Thou who wouldst be wise
Open wide thine eyes, --
In each sunny hour
Pluck the one perfect flower! 

The young [rose I give thee, so dewy and bright]1,
Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night,
Who oft, by the [moon]2, o'er her blushes hath hung,
And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he [sung]3.

Oh, take [thou]4 this young rose, and let her life be
Prolonged by the breath she will borrow from thee;
For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill,
She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.