FROM COUNT TOLSTOI.

Believe it not, when in excess of sorrow

I murmur that my love for thee is o’er!

When ebbs the tide, think not the sea’s a traitor—

He will return and love the land once more.

I still am pining, full of former passion,

To thee, again, my freedom I’ll restore,

E’en as the waves, with homeward murmur flowing,

Roll back from far to the belovèd shore.

Do not scold me so, my dear,

Wrath with words so feebly matching!

Such a scolding soothes my ear;

I’m your words intent on catching;

As they issue suddenly,

Pouring forth in pretty prattling,

What marvel that they sound to me

Pearls on silver salver rattling!