All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back on loveliness and sighed.

Martyred many times must be Who would keep his country free.

The longest absence is less perilous to love than the terrible trials of incessant proximity.

After the feet of beauty fly my own.

And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea.

SHE is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs; In the sun ’tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea. She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.

Beauty never slumbers; All is in her name; But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.