They snuffed about the fir tree and rustled among the branches. I am by no means old said the fir tree. There's many a one considerably older than I am. They were so extremely curious. I know no such place said the tree. And then he told all about his youth and the little mice had never heard the like before and they listened and said said the fir tree thinking over what he had himself related yes in reality those were happy times. Who is Humpy Dumpy asked the mice. Only that one answered the tree. It is a very stupid story. Don't you know one about bacon and tallow candles Can't you tell any larger stories No said the tree Then goodbye said the rats and they went home At last the little mice stayed away also and the tree sighed After all it was very pleasant when the sleek little mice sat round me and listened to what I told them Now that too is over Why one morning there came a quantity of people and set to work in the loft The trunks were moved the tree was pulled out and thrown rather hard it is true down on the floor but a man drew him towards the stairs where the daylight shone But it was not the fir tree that they meant It was in a corner that he lay among weeds and nettles The golden star of tinsel was still on the top of the tree and glittered in the sunshine In the courtyard some of the merry children were playing who had danced at Christmas round the fir tree and were so glad at the sight of him And the gardener's boy chopped the tree into small pieces There was a whole heap lying there The wood flamed up splendidly under the large brewing copper and it sighed so deeply However that was over now The tree gone the story at an end All is said without a word I sit beneath thy looks as children do in the noon sun with souls that tremble through their happy eyelids from an unavowed yet prodigal inward joy I did not wrong myself so but I placed a wrong on thee when called before I told how hastily I dropped my flowers or break off from a game shall I never miss home talk and blessing and the common kiss that comes to each in turn nor count it strange when I look up to drop on a new range of walls and floors another home than this alas I have grieved so I am hard to love open thy heart wide and fold within the wet wings of thy dove Could it mean to last a love set pendulous between sorrow and sorrow nay I rather thrilled distrusting every light that seemed to guild the onward path and feared to overlean a finger even and though I have grown serene and strong since then I think that God has willed a still renewable fear O love O troth and love be false if he to keep one oath must lose one joy by his life's star foretold slow to world greetings quick with its O list when the angels speak a ring of amethyst I could not wear here plainer to my sight than that first kiss That was the chrism of love which love's own crown with sanctifying sweetness did precede the third upon my lips was folded down in perfect purple state since when indeed I have been proud and said my love my own dearest teach me so to pour out gratitude as thou dost good Mussulmans and Gyowers throw kerchiefs at a smile and have no ruth for any weeping but thou art not such a lover my beloved thou canst wait through sorrow and sickness to bring souls to touch and think it soon when others cry too late I thank all who have loved me in their hearts with thanks and love from mine O to shoot my soul's full meaning into future years that they should lend it utterance and salute love that endures from life that disappears. Then I long tried by natural ills received the comfort fast while budding at thy sight my pilgrim's staff gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled. I love thee freely as men strive for right. I love thee purely as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use in my old greeds and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints. I love thee with the breath smiles tears of all my life and if God choose I shall but love thee better after death. To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day down by the river of Adana her soft voice is heard and thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew o life of this our spring