ES IST NICHT WEIT HER!

THE flowers that spring beneath our feet

We never heed,

In vain they scatter fragrance sweet,

In vain they plead.

The lilies fair we thoughtless press,

And roses red, -

O'erlook the teeming loveliness

Around us spread.

But round the silver stars that shine

Resplendent in the sky, there clings

The witchery of far-off things,

For them we yearn, - for them we pine.

A. L. H.