IX
“Be at the opera”—you write—to-night—
The crimson rose I send on your breast wear,
My lips had blessed it ere I sent it where
They, too, have lain and learned love’s speech aright.
“I cannot wait”—you say—“till comes our night;
Tu esposo—I know, yes, he’ll be there,
But that I’ll suffer if you’ll grant me, Fair,
One glimpse of you. O! let me know. Write! Write!”
Yes, Sweet! and when the trumpets leap and sing,
And fiddle-bows rise, fall, like trees swaying
Beneath an angry storm when winds are strong,
Ear-dulled, the present blotted with the past,
My love shall rise and reach you, hold you fast,
And vanish with you on the wings of song!