By Lissie Brobjerg

Ay! Thou thinkest thou art the world
for smileth not all bright flowers thy way,
And mimic thee, dreameth in thine arms curled?
And asked, what is the wither’d to you, say!
“I liveth in blossom, the clouds obey me, nay:
I knoweth not such grief, nor ills
do disturb my nose, sight nor ears!
Bring not troubles to these hills,
Do not disturb my calms with fears.”
Though all the troubles of the world,
Wouldst all but thy lovely face encurl;
Alone wouldst thou, unperish’d lay
In thine own pitiful dismay.