With a wreath of immortelles she’ll
Deck my grave in foreign fashion,
Sighing say “pauvre homme!” and sadly
Drop a tear of fond compassion.
I shall then too high be dwelling,
And, alas! no chair have ready
For my darling’s use to offer,
As she walks with foot unsteady.
Sweet, stout little one, return not
Home on foot, I must implore thee;
At the barrier gate is standing
A fiacre all ready for thee.
13. MEETING AGAIN.
One summer eve, in the woodbine bower
We sat once more at the window lonely;
The moon arose with life-giving power,
But we appear’d two spectres only.
Twelve years had pass’d since the last occasion
When we on this spot had sat together;
Each tender glow, each loving persuasion
Had meanwhile been quench’d in life’s rough weather.
I silently sat. The woman, however,
Just like her sex, amongst love’s ashes
Must needs be raking, but vain her endeavour
To kindle again its long-quench’d flashes.
And she recounted how she had contended
With evil thoughts, the story disclosing
How hardly she once her virtue defended,—
I stupidly listened to all her prosing.
When homeward I rode, the trees beside me
Like spirits beneath the moon’s rays flitted;
Sad voices call’d, but onward I hied me,
Yes, I and the dead, who my side ne’er quitted.