To the young beauty

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.