Page:Court Journal 1835.pdf/8



meet not in the valley Where we were wont to meet: Where the little brook was flowing, And the birds were singing sweet.

Our treasures were the lilies That open in the spring, Or the purple feathers falling From off the peacock's wing.

We were young, and we were happy, The present was our own, The past was not remembered, The future was unknown.

The music of the river, The dear blue sky above, Filled the inmost heart within us    With happiness and love.

We had a thousand fancies, And we had not a care— Life's hours were stealing round us, While dreaming what they were.

We read old tales of fairies And half believed them true, The fortune of our future Had, at least, enough to do.