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O! I am sick in this lone land of flowers,
My soul is weary—weary of them all!
My soul is weary—weary of them all!
Yet had I that sweet face, on which I ponder,
To bloom for me within this Eden-home,
That lip to sweetly murmur when I wander,
That cheek to softly dimple when I come,
How sweet would glide my days in these lone bowers,
Far from the world and all its heartless throngs,
Her fairy feet should only tread on flowers,
I 'd make her home melodious with my songs!
To bloom for me within this Eden-home,
That lip to sweetly murmur when I wander,
That cheek to softly dimple when I come,
How sweet would glide my days in these lone bowers,
Far from the world and all its heartless throngs,
Her fairy feet should only tread on flowers,
I 'd make her home melodious with my songs!
Ah me! such blissful hopes once filled my bosom,
And dreams of fame could then my heart enthrall,
And joy and bliss around me seemed to blossom,
But O! these blissful hopes are blighted—all!
No smiling angel decks these Eden-bowers,
No springing footstep echoes mine in glee—
O I am weary in this land of flowers!
I sigh—I sigh amid them all—ah me!
And dreams of fame could then my heart enthrall,
And joy and bliss around me seemed to blossom,
But O! these blissful hopes are blighted—all!
No smiling angel decks these Eden-bowers,
No springing footstep echoes mine in glee—
O I am weary in this land of flowers!
I sigh—I sigh amid them all—ah me!
