Ah, who was it coloured that little frock, my child, and covered your sweet limbs with that little red tunic? You have come out in the morning to play in the courtyard, tottering and tumbling as you run. But who was it coloured that little frock, my child? What is it makes you laugh, my little life-bud? Mother smiles at you standing on the threshold. She claps her hands and her bracelets jingle, and you dance with your bamboo stick in your hand like a tiny little shepherd. But ...

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Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still, Then it will be good night. How can I call the lone night good, Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? Be it not said, thought, understood -- Then it will be -- good night. To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night. ...

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1 The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark - now glittering - now reflecting gloom - Now lending splendor, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute brings Of waters, - with a sound but half its own, Such as a feeble brook will oft assume In the wild woods, amon the mountains lone, Where waterfalls around it leap for ever, Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves. 2 Thus thou, Ravine ...

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