Parerga/Lorsque Seul Avec Toi
< Parerga
When, close by thy side, I am with thee alone,
Thy soft hand so tenderly clasp'd in my own;
When the soul is abandon'd to placid delight,
And the hours fly away, but we feel not their flight;
While my glances still linger enamour'd o'er thee,
As over the honey-rose hovers the bee;
How often, alas! through the depth of my heart
A pang, a vague fear, like an arrow will start!
Thou feelest me shudder, the paleness of woe
In the midst of our happiness saddens my brow;
All anxious and loving, thou raisest thy face,
Thine arms flung around me in winning embrace;
Thou bidd'st me the source of my sorrow to tell,
But sharest the anguish thou can'st not dispel;
And the tremulous tears on thy long lashes shine,
Still ready to soothe or to mingle with mine.
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!
Thy soft hand so tenderly clasp'd in my own;
When the soul is abandon'd to placid delight,
And the hours fly away, but we feel not their flight;
While my glances still linger enamour'd o'er thee,
As over the honey-rose hovers the bee;
How often, alas! through the depth of my heart
A pang, a vague fear, like an arrow will start!
Thou feelest me shudder, the paleness of woe
In the midst of our happiness saddens my brow;
All anxious and loving, thou raisest thy face,
Thine arms flung around me in winning embrace;
Thou bidd'st me the source of my sorrow to tell,
But sharest the anguish thou can'st not dispel;
And the tremulous tears on thy long lashes shine,
Still ready to soothe or to mingle with mine.
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!