(Vers de SociÉtÉ.)
We'll cover Love with roses,
And sweet sleep he shall take.
None but a fool supposes
Love always keeps awake.
I've known loves without number.
True loves were they, and tried;
And just for want of slumber
They pined away and died.
Our love was bright and cheerful
A little while agone;
Now he is pale and tearful,
And—yes, I've seen him yawn.
So tired is he of kisses
That he can only weep;
The one dear thing he misses
And longs for now is sleep.
We could not let him leave us
One time, he was so dear,
But now it would not grieve us
If he slept half a year.
For he has had his season,
Like the lily and the rose,
And it but stands to reason
That he should want repose.
We prized the smiling Cupid
Who made our days so bright;
But he has grown so stupid
We gladly say good?night.
And if he wakens tender
And fond, and fair as when
He filled our lives with splendor,
We'll take him back again.
And should he never waken,
As that perchance may be,
We will not weep forsaken,
But sing, "Love, tra?la?lee!"