Konrad Ferdinand Meyer (1825–1898)

ORANGES all ripe and golden we have seen, and myrtle growing,

And the lizard flit along the wall, in sunlight glowing.

O’er our heads beside a wilted bush a butterfly was gliding:

There is here no border, sharply youth and age dividing.

Buds are born before the wind has blown away the leaves that wither,

In a sweet entanglement the train of hours flies hither.

Tell me what your eyes are dreaming? Of a winter—aye, a white one?

Dear, ’tis by a spring that you are richer, and a bright one!

For you love the ling’ring suns and glowing colours strong, unshaded—

And for home you’re longing, where they long ago have faded?

Hark! Through mildest airs of Paradise the Christmas bells are calling!

Tell me what your eyes are dreaming? Of the snowflakes falling?