22.
The night is still, and the streets are deserted,
In this house my love had her dwelling of yore;
’Tis long since she from the city departed,
Yet her house still stands on the spot as before.
There stands, too, a man, who stares up at her casement,
And wrings his hands with the weight of his woes;
I look on his face with shudd’ring amazement,—
The moon doth the form of myself disclose.
Thou pallid fellow, thou worthless double!
Why dare to mimic my love’s hard lot,
Which many a night gave me grief and trouble
In former days, on this very spot?