In his arms he bore Her, armed with sorrow sore; Till before their way A couching lion lay. Turning back was vain: Soon his heavy mane Bore them to the ground, Then he stalked around, Smelling to his prey; But their fears allay When he licks their hands, And silent by them stands. They look upon his eyes, Filled with deep surprise; And wondering behold A spirit armed in gold.
Ah Sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun; Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done; Where the Youth pined away with desire, And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my Sunflower wishes to go!
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