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“This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloomed with its owner a while, And the tear that is wiped with a little address

May be followed, perhaps, by a smile."


For roses and tears, though not like in themselves,

Agree in one point, we all know:
That roses bloom longer when not shaken hard,

And tears, well dried up, cease to flow;

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And sooner or later, the smile 's sure to come

That chequers this valley of woe; ;
Just as fairer and sweeter and longer lasts still

Of a gingerly pulled rose the blow.
Walking from AGAZZANO (near PIACENZA) to Borgonovo, May 30, 1861.


"The wind has blown down my house of cards,

Alas, and alack-a-day!"
I heard a child once with sobs and tears

To his spectacled grandmother say.

“What matter? what matter ?” old grandmother cried,

As she laid her green spectacles down, “Thou hast nothing to do but to build up another;

See, there are thy cards every one.”

And so says the poet: Thou grown-up child,

When the wind blows thy house of cards down, Thou hast nothing to do but to build up another;

See, there are thy cards every one.

For one house of cards is as good as another,

It 's the building each up is the fun;
Strive thou as thou wilt to make one last for ever,

Thou canst not, else wert thou undone.
Walking from Alt St. JOHANN (Canton ST. GALLEN) to HEMBERG, July 1, 1861.


No hand but mine these verses made;
To another's pen the honor 's paid:
So birds their brood for others rear,
So sheep their wool for others bear,
So bees their sweets for others house,
For others so the strong ox ploughs.
Forgive me, Maro, if I 'm wrong,

Or ill interpreted thy song.
Gossau (Canton ST. GALLEN), July 2, 1861.

“SPEECH is God's gift to enable Man to hide
His thoughts at pleasure,” said wise Talleyrand.
Whence I conclude that either speech was not,
In the opinion of wise Talleyrand,
God's gift to enable man to hide his thoughts,
Or that wise Talleyrand God's gift abused

This once, this only once in all his life.
Walking from WALDENBUCH to ECHTERDINGEN near STUTTGART, July 19, 1861.


As once I walked contemplative

In dirty Dublin street,
I chanced, by good luck or by bad,

A lounging friend to meet;

He asked me how I was, and I

Said, I was very well,
And begged he'd be so good as how

He was himself, to tell:

"I do not know, I cannot say,”

My friend, he answered me,
"He is a wise man knows himself;

In that we all agree."

“Yes, to be sure," said I, and bowed,

And went upon my way;
And every time I 'm asked since then,

"How do ?” think of that day,

And wish so wise were all my friends,

And I myself so wise,
Not to provoke with questions vain,

As idle, vain replies.

Show me the man that how he is,

Or how he is not, knows;
And I 'll show thee the stream that up

Its native hill-side flows.

Walking from BEILSTEIN to HETMRIED (WÜRTTEMBERG), July 22, 1861.

BELINDA from the glass turns wroth away,
Which shows her beauty's premature decay:
Where is the reader who a second look
E’er casts upon a plain, truth-speaking book ?


“Ha! false glass,” Belinda cries,
And the tear starts to her eyes,
“I am not, if truth were told,
Half so ugly or so old.”
Into shivers, as she spoke,
With her hand the wroth maid broke
Her too faithful glass and true:
So, be sure, they 'll do to you,
My too faithful book and true,
Call you false, and, in a rage,
Tear or blot or burn your page,
And to hide their well earned shamne,
Vilify your author's name.
Let them do it if they will;
Mé, these times, they cannot kill,
Cannot burn me at the stake,
And truth's martyr of me make:
So they'll wreak their wrath on you,

My too faithful book and true.
Walking from NECKARELZ to MUDAU (WüRTTEMBERG), July 30, 1861.

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