Marie

'Tis thus, when the flower of springtime

In the woods is about to bloom,

At the first breath of the warm breeze

With mystic smiles its leaves are beaming,

And its stalk, so fresh and so tender,

Feeling its soft caly open,

Even to the earth's very bosom,

Is thrilled with joy and with desire.

'Tis thus, when my sweetest Marie

Opens slightly her lips be loved

And lifts, with charmed beauty, her blue eyes,

In harmony and dazzling brightness,

Her pure soul seems, in radiant whiteness,

Mounting trembling up to the sky.