  [For two little girls.] I. Young Rosalind, she is my rose! I care not who the secret knows; So deep within my heart she grows, Her constant bloom no winter knows; Sweet Rosalind, she is my rose. Alas! this rose hath yet a thorn, Whereon my heart is daily torn. The love I proffer her each morn, That love she flings me back in scorn. But shall I therefore idly mourn? She'd be no rose without the thorn. II. When the ivory lily darkens, When the jealous rose turns pale, Then I say, "My Julia's coming! 'Tis a sign will never fail." When the bobolink is silent, When the linnet stays her trill, Then I say, "My Julia's singing! At her voice the birds are still." When I feel two velvet rose-leaves Touch my eyes on either lid, Then I say, "My Julia kissed me!" And she answers, "Yes, me did!" |
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