Song

THE clover-blossoms kiss her feet,
She is so sweet,
While I, who may not kiss her hand,
Bless all the wild-flowers in the land.

Soft sunshine falls across her breast,
She is so blest.
I’m jealous of its arms of gold :
O that her form these arms might fold !

Gently the breezes kiss her hair,
She is so fair.
Let flowers and sun and breeze go by;
O dearest ! love me, or I die.