PERLE DES JARDINS.
What am I, and what is he
Who can cull and tear a heart,
As one might a rose for sport
In its royalty?
What am I, that he has made
All this love a bitter foam,
Blown about a life of loam
That must break and fade?
He who of my heart could make
Hollow crystal where his face
Like a passion had its place
Holy and then break!
Shatter with insensate jeers!—
But these weary eyes are dry,
Tearless clear, and if I die
They shall know no tears.
Yet my heart weeps;—let it weep!
Let it weep in sullen pain,
And this anguish in my brain
Cry itself to sleep.
Ah! the afternoon is warm,
And yon fields are glad and fair;
Many happy creatures there
Thro' the woodland swarm.
All the summer land is still,
And the woodland stream is dark
Where the lily rocks its barque
Just below the mill.
If they found me icy there
'Mid the lilies and pale whorls
Of the cresses in my curls
Wet of raven hair—
Fool and coward! are you such?
Would you have him thus to know
That you died for utter woe
And despair o'ermuch?