Category: Poetry
_Mosada._ [_alone_] Three times the roses have grown less and less, As slowly Autumn climbed the golden throne Where sat old Summer fading into song, And thrice the peaches flushed upon the walls, And thrice the corn around the sickles flamed, Since 'mong my people, tented on...
_Mosada._ Oh! swallows, swallows, swallows, will ye fly This eve, to-morrow, or to-morrow night Above the farm-house by the little lake That's rustling in the reeds with patient...
1. SCENE I._Mosada._ [_alone_] Three times the roses have grown less and less, As slowly Autumn climbed the golden throne Where sat old Summer fading into song, And thrice the peaches flus...
2. SCENE II.Where is our brother Peter? When you're nigh, He is not far. I'd have him speak for her. I saw his jovial mood bring once a smile To sainted Ebremar's sad eyes. I think He loves...