Classic Poem

All the star-flowers on the hill
Nod their sweet heads wearily;
Through the sad September day,
To my lonely heart they say,
Floralie is far away.

All the little birds that sang
In the copse so cheerily,
Fluttering from spray to spray,
Seem in mournful notes to say,
Floralie is far away — far away.

All the morning-stars that look
Through the dawn so drearily,
Turning from the joyless day,
By their sadness seem to say,
Floralie is far away, —
Far away — far, far away.

Bex, Switzerland, August 1870

...............
But goosey all these weary years
Had toiled like any ant,
And wearied out she now replied,
" My little dears, I can't. "
" When I was starving, half this corn
Had been of vital use,
Now I am surfeited with food
Like any Strasbourg goose. "
So to escape too many friends,
Without uncivil strife,
She ran to the Atlantic pond
And paddled for her life.
Soon up among the grand old Alps
She found two blessed things,
The health she had so nearly lost,
And rest for weary limbs.
But still across the briny deep
Couched in most friendly words,
Came prayers for letters, tales, or verse,
From literary birds.
Whereat the renovated fowl
With grateful thanks profuse,
Took from her wing a quill and wrote
This lay of a Golden Goose.