Poetry.
Douce-cœur, I charge thee, listen. All the past
Of Childhood calls thee in the voice of Song.
Douce-cœur.
Sing if thou wilt. Those days were long ago.
Song.
I stood beside the lilac bush
While all its blossoms rained on me,
I watched the white wraith of a moon
Turn to pale gold above the sea.
I held a wand of almond bough
And waved it three times circlewise,
I whispered words of faery lore
With beating heart and close shut eyes.
I oped them on a forest scene
Of summer-land; the open glade
Lay shining like a tourmaline
Set in a ring of duller jade.
I saw three queens with shining crowns
Go riding by on palfreys gray;
I saw three knights that followed close,
And dreams were in their eyes that day.
I saw a minstrel with his harp,
His cloak was green and patched and torn;
I saw a hunter with his bow,
I heard the winding of his horn.
I saw a bush of lavender
With clouds of fluttering butterflies,
Then I looked backward to the earth
And broke my faery spell with sighs.
Douce-Cœur.
I cannot bear thy music. In my heart
No answering chords respond. The past is dead.
I hear the tears of thousands in thy voice.
When Sorrow speaks—I hear no tones but hers.