THE sun still chaunts, as in old time,
See, the autumn cometh!The caterpillarSighs to the crafty spider,--Sighs that the tree will not fade.
I carry my store.
And either live or die there!
The water sinks, the plains re-appear.
I will seize thee,
Whom we for ages know!
To gain love's sweet reward.
BOOK OF LOVE.
And yet a cross ne'er gain.
Thus was it, thus is it to-day.
OF all the beauteous waresExposed for sale at fairs,None will give more delightThan those that to your sightFrom distant lands we bring.Oh, hark to what we sing!These beauteous birds behold,They're brought here to be sold.