Oft, in sweet hours of heavenly bliss,
Too fine appeared the thread to me;
Still oftener, when near sorrow's dark abyss,
Too firm its fabric seemed to be.
Clotho, for this and other lies,
Thy pardon I with tears implore;
Henceforth I'll take whatever prize
Sage Clotho gives, and asks no more.
But never let the shears cut off a rose—
Only the thorns,—yet as thou will'st!
Let, if thou will'st, the death-shears, sharply close,
If thou this single prayer fulfill'st!
Oh, goddess! when, enchained to Laura's breath,
My spirit from its shell breaks free,
Betraying when, upon the gates of death,
My youthful life hangs giddily,
Let to infinity the thread extend,
'Twill wander through the realms of bliss,—
Then, goddess, let thy cruel shears descend!
Then let them fall, O Lachesis!
THE PARALLEL.
Her likeness Madame Ramler bids me find;
I try to think in vain, to whom or how
Beneath the moon there's nothing of the kind.—
I'll show she's like the moon, I vow!
The moon—she rouges, steals the sun's bright light,
By eating stolen bread her living gets,—
Is also wont to paint her cheeks at night,
While, with untiring ardor, she coquets.
The moon—for this may Herod give her thanks!—
Reserves her best till night may have returned;
Our lady swallows up by day the francs
That she at night-time may have earned.
The moon first swells, and then is once more lean,
As surely as the month comes round;
With Madame Ramler 'tis the same, I ween—
But she to need more time is found!