Capitolo 19
Or in Your shady pergolas you recline;
Then you open wide Your gilded gates,
And it makes them dig, and it makes them dig.
SMALL CHARLES.
A Violet grew from the river-side,
And it cheered all the hearts with his/her flower;
While on the fields, on the perfumed air,
A rich perfume breathed.
But the clouds grew the dark in the angry sky,
And its portals were wide open;
And the heavy rain beaten down the flower
That grew from the river-side.
Not far street in a pleasant house,
There a small boy lived,
Of whom happy face and the childish grace
Filled every heart with joy.
He wandered one day to the limit of the river,
Without one next to rescue;
And the heart that we have loved with a boundless love
It was stilled in the wave without rest.
The sky grew the dark to our crying eyes,
And we offered goodbye to rejoyce;
For our hearts it was tied up from a sorry tie
To the grave of the small boy.
The birds still sing in the leafy tree
That shades the open door;
We don't hold them to us account of, for us we think about the voice
What we will feel anybody more.
We think about him to evening,
And it looks fixed on his/her vacant chair
With a covetous heart that wants scarce believes
That Charles is not there.
We seem to feel his/her tinkling laugh,
And his/her footstep that limits to the door;
But, alas! there it comes to the sorry thought,
Won't feel anymore them to us!
We will sometimes walk to his/her small grave,
Of pleasant times in summer;
We will speak his/her name to a softened voice,
And it covers his/her grave with flowers;
We will think about him in his/her paradisiacal house,--
In his/her paradisiacal house so equitable;
And we will have trust with a flood of hope trust
What we will satisfy there him to us.
THE WHIPPOORWILL ED ME.
In the done hours to keep silent at night, when the air rather still,
I feel the to whine strange of the alone whippoorwill,
Who Sings psalms, without stopping, that marvelous trill,
Of what the still soles load it is, "Whip-poor-Will."