But the lullaby continued: “Do not interrupt,” said she.
Next I hailed a youth that passed me, and his face was wond’rous fair,
And I searched long through his heart’s book, but the poem was not there;
“It is lost!” I cried with sorrow, as Despair held out her cup,
And I quaffed the bitter liquid, and the idle search gave up.
* * * * * * *
Years have passed, and just this morning I was called beside a bed,
Where the sheet lay still and sober over an old lover spread;
Sad and pallid were his features, clever, too, Death’s new disguise,
But I read the old, old secret, even in his half-closed eyes.