But how could innocent white Alfs suspect Lok’s treachery?
Thus on the grass in Autumn late two lovers often sit;
They gaze upon each other’s face with rapture and delight;
They feel not that the fev’rish air announces: “One shall die!”
Grasping their flow’ry garland in their hands, their ecstacy
Makes them incautious; they inhale the pestilential breath
Of the foul Lok, who lurks behind the bushes on the heath.
The placid moon, which cheer’d so oft their love with radiance meek,
But which had not the power to cool the deep blush on their cheek,
A few weeks later on the bier a lifeless corpse doth view