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LORSQUE SEUL AVEC TOI.
Oh press me no more for the cause of my sadness!
It is not the want of affectionate gladness.
Oh no!—when I see you thus leaning above me,
When you fold your arms round me and tell me you love me,
My own, my adored one, there is not a bliss
On earth that I hope for so perfect as this.
But then, even then, in the moments most dear
A voice that I know not seems close to my ear,
And whispers its warning with withering breath
That the torch of our love must be darken'd in death,
That bliss will soon vanish with vanishing years;—
Oh then my soul shivers, and shrinks from its fears—
From the cold thought, that tells me our love and our joy
Are dreams which a touch may for ever destroy!
It is not the want of affectionate gladness.
Oh no!—when I see you thus leaning above me,
When you fold your arms round me and tell me you love me,
My own, my adored one, there is not a bliss
On earth that I hope for so perfect as this.
But then, even then, in the moments most dear
A voice that I know not seems close to my ear,
And whispers its warning with withering breath
That the torch of our love must be darken'd in death,
That bliss will soon vanish with vanishing years;—
Oh then my soul shivers, and shrinks from its fears—
From the cold thought, that tells me our love and our joy
Are dreams which a touch may for ever destroy!