AFTER HEINE.

Good luck is the gayest of all gay girls,
Long in one place she will not stay;
Back from your brow she strokes the curls,
Kisses you quick and flies away.

But Madame Bad Luck soberly comes
And stays,—no fancy has she for flitting,—
Snatches of true love-songs she hums,
And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting.