Where the sun loves to pause With so fond a delay, That the night only draws A thin veil o'er the day; Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. We should love, as they loved in the first golden time; |