They sat round the tea-table drinking
And speaking of love a great deal;
The men of æsthetics were thinking,
The ladies more prone were to feel.
“All love ought to be but platonical”
The wither’d old counsellor said;
His wife by a smile quite ironical
Rejoin’d, and then sighed “Ah!” instead.
Said the canon with visage dejected:
“Love ne’er should be suffered to go
“Too far, or the health is affected;”
The maiden then simper’d: “How so?”
The Countess her sad feelings vented,
Said “Love is a passion, I’m sure,”
And then to the Baron presented
His cup with politeness demure.
A place was still empty at table;
My darling, ’twas thou wert away;
Thou hadst been so especially able
The tale of thy love, sweet, to say.
56.
My songs with poison are tainted,
But how could it otherwise be?
My blossoming life thou hast poison’d,
And made it hateful to me.
My songs with poison are tainted,
But how could it otherwise be?
In my heart many serpents I carry,
And thee too, my dearest love, thee.
57.
I dreamt once more the vision of yore:
The time was a fair May even,
We sat ’neath the linden, and there we swore
To be faithful, in presence of heaven.