Читать книгу The Queen Bee, and Other Nature Stories - Ewald Carl - Страница 2

We strayed, thy little hand in mine,

One summer morning fresh and fine,

In a wood where birches met;

A great sun-bonnet served as frame

To rounded childish cheeks aflame —

Thy voice is ringing yet!

Of birdies' songs, of flowers, of trees —

Whate'er thy tender mind could seize —

I wove thee tales, my pet:

Ah, thou canst not remember it,

And I can ne'er forget!

And now my locks are thin and gray,

For years since then have slipped away,

For gladness or regret!

And ah, the woods where now I roam,

And those wide chambers of my home,

Know thee no more, Ninette!

Since I shall never find thee then,

Oh, let this Book remind thee then

Of a wood where birches met:

For thou canst not remember it,

And I can ne'er forget!