Page:The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.djvu/406
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THE BOHEMIANS OF THE LATIN QUARTER.
“But do not think my love is dead,
Or to forget you I begin.
If you sought entry to my shed
My heart would leap to let you in:
Since at your name it trembles still—
Muse of oblivious fantasy!—
Return and share, if share you will,
Joy’s consecrated bread with me.
Or to forget you I begin.
If you sought entry to my shed
My heart would leap to let you in:
Since at your name it trembles still—
Muse of oblivious fantasy!—
Return and share, if share you will,
Joy’s consecrated bread with me.
“The decorations of the nest
Which saw our mutual ardor burn
Already seem to wear their best
At the mere hope of such return.
Come, see if you can recognize
Things your departure reft of glee,
The bed, the glass of extra size,
In which you often drank for me.
Which saw our mutual ardor burn
Already seem to wear their best
At the mere hope of such return.
Come, see if you can recognize
Things your departure reft of glee,
The bed, the glass of extra size,
In which you often drank for me.
“You shall resume the plain white gown
You used to look so nice in, then;
On Sunday we can still run down
To wander in the woods again.
Beneath the bower, at evening,
Again we’ll drink the liquid bright
In which your song will dip its wing
Before in air it took to flight.”
You used to look so nice in, then;
On Sunday we can still run down
To wander in the woods again.
Beneath the bower, at evening,
Again we’ll drink the liquid bright
In which your song will dip its wing
Before in air it took to flight.”
Musette, who has at last confessed
The carnival of life was gone,
Came back, one morning, to the nest
Whence, like a wild bird, she had flown;
But, while I kissed the fugitive,
My heart no more emotion knew,
For, she had ceased, for me, to live,
And “You,” she said, “no more are you.”
The carnival of life was gone,
Came back, one morning, to the nest
Whence, like a wild bird, she had flown;
But, while I kissed the fugitive,
My heart no more emotion knew,
For, she had ceased, for me, to live,
And “You,” she said, “no more are you.”
“Heart of my heart!” I answered, “Go!
We cannot call the dead love back;
Best let it lie, interred, below
The tombstone of the almanac.
Perhaps a spirit that remembers
The happy time it notes for me
May find some day amongst its embers
Of a lost Paradise the key.”
We cannot call the dead love back;
Best let it lie, interred, below
The tombstone of the almanac.
Perhaps a spirit that remembers
The happy time it notes for me
May find some day amongst its embers
Of a lost Paradise the key.”