Wert thou a precious stone, I'd clasp thee tight
Around mine arm; wert thou a silken dress
I'd ne'er discard thee, either day or night:—
Last night, sweet love! I dreamt I saw thy face.
ON THE DEATH OF THE POET'S MISTRESS
How fondly did I yearn to gaze
(For was there not the dear abode
Of her whose love lit up my days?)
On Karu's often-trodden road.
But should I wander in and out,
Morning and evening ceaselessly,
Our loves were quickly noised about,
For eyes enough there were to see.
So, trusting that as tendrils part
To meet again, so we might meet,
As in deep rocky gorge my heart,
Unseen, unknown, in secret beat.
But like the sun at close of day,
And as behind a cloud the moon,
So passed my gentle love away,
An autumn leaf ta'en all too soon.
When came the fatal messenger,
I knew not what to say or do:—
But who might sit and simply hear?
Rather, methought, of all my woe.
Haply one thousandth part might find
Relief if my due feet once more,
Where she so often trod, should wind
Through Karu's streets and past her door.
But mute that noise, nor all the crowd
Could show her like, or soothe my care;
So, calling her dear name aloud,
I waved my sleeve in blank despair.