Marie

Marie, I see thee fairest one,

as in a garden fair.

Before thee flowers and blossoms play

tossed by soft evening air.

The pilgrim passing on his way,

Bows low before thy shrine;

Thou art, my child, like one sweet prayer,

So good, so fair, so pure almost divine.

How sweetly now the flowrets raise

their eyes to thy dear glance;

The fairest flower on which I gaze

is thy dear countenace.

The evening bells are greeting thee,

With sweetest melody,

O may no storm e'er crush thy flowers,

Or break thy heart, Marie!