Petőfi gyüjtemény - B sorozat / 19-es doboz

The quivering bush.

A bird flew here to rest;

The boughs stilt quivering move;

Thus tremor thrills my breast All thought of thee, my Love!

I think of thee, my Love;

For dear art thou to me :

Though all the world I rove,

I find no erem like thee.

The Danube brimming flows,

Yea, e’en o’erfloods the fields;

No bounds my passion knows,

To naught my ardour yields.

O I lov’st thou me, my Rose,

Who fondly thee adore ?

No parent truer shonos,

Nor e’er could love thee more.

When last with thee alone,

Thou lovedst me, I know:

Warm shone the summer sun;

’Tis cruel winter now.

Feel’st thou no tender thrill,

Heaven’s smile yet o’er thee shine But, if thou love me still,

Unmeasured bliss be thine 1

Butler.

XIII. Angol nyelven.