poems back artist cataloque
Maiden, where are you,
Who is tearing leaves off the branch,
I was seaking you in a grove,
And fancying pictures drincing wine,
The ligueur prepared from petals,
Your eyes so shy,
Your hair upon the wind,
In dreams you were calling me.
I stood right there
Like morrow before the sunrise,
And a hermit I was,
Sad meditations to dress me.
The final Moon is very soon to rise,
And though I'll have to sleep,
But it's the celebration
Of my memory,
For the billows of any silver brook
Aiways carry the scarled petals
ou have torn off.
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