Puslapio vaizdai

Going to die! For who shall waste in sadness,
Shorn of the sun, the very warmth and light,
Miss the green welcome of the sweet earth's gladness,
Lose the round life that only Love makes bright:
There is no succour if these things are taken.
None but Death loves the lips by Love forsaken.

So, in a little, when those Two had parted,—
Tired of himself, and weary as before,
Boucher remembering, sick and sorry-hearted,
Stayed for a moment by Rosina's door.

“Ah, the poor child !” the neighbours cry of her,
"Morte, M'sieu, morte! On dit,—des peines du cœur!”

Just for a second, say, the tidings shocked him,
Say, in his eye a sudden tear-drop shone,—
Just for a second a dull feeling mocked him
With a vague sense of something priceless gone;
Then, for at best 'twas but the empty type,
The husk of man with which the days were ripe,-

Then, he forgot her. But, for you that slew her,
You, her own sister, that with airy ease,
Just for a moment's fancy could undo her,
Pass on your way. A little while, Marquise,

Be the sky silent, be the sea serene ;
A pleasant passage-à Sainte Guillotine!

As for Rosina,-for the quiet sleeper,

Whether stone hides her, or the happy grass, If the sun quickens, if the dews beweep her,

Laid in the Madeleine or Montparnasse, Nothing we know,-but that her heart is cold,

Poor beating heart! And so the story's told.


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