Page:In Bohemia (1886).djvu/66



In the Spring we see: Then the buds are dear to us—immature bosoms like lilies swell. In the Summer we live: When bright eyes are near to us, oh, the sweet stories the false lips tell! In the Autumn we love: When the honey is dripping, deep eyes moisten and soft breasts heave; In the Winter we think: With the sands fast slipping, we smile and sigh for the days we leave.