LXXV.
Upon thy snow-white shoulders
I lean my head at rest;
And secretly I hearken
To the yearning of thy breast.
In thy heart hussars blue-coated
Are riding and blowing their horn;
And my darling will surely desert me
With the earliest streak of morn.
And if thou desert me to-morrow,
None the less art thou mine to-day.
And within thine arms so lovely,
Still doubly blest I stay.