Furl it, fold it, it is best;
For there's not a man to wave it--
And there's not a sword to save it--
And there's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it;
Furl it, hide it; let it rest."
But younger and brighter eyes than his own, dimmed with battle smoke,
look love into each other. Louise and Armand feel the throbbing
whispers of the lake in their own beating hearts.
Far above them there, the silver peaks lift unsullied altars to
the God of nature, life, and love.
And as the rosy flush of morning touches the Jungfrau, as the tender
light steals along the sunlit peaks of the Alps, so does the light
of love warm these two young hearts. Bounding pulse and melting
accent, blush of morning on rosy peak and maiden's cheek, tell of
the dawning day of light and love.
Shy and sweet, their natures mingle as two rivulets flowing to
the sea. Born in darkness and coldness, to dance along in warmth
and sunlight, and mingle with that great river of life which flows
toward the unknown sea.
In days of bliss, in weeks of happiness, in months of heart growth,
the two children of fortune drink in each other's eyes the philter
of love.
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