Going to die! For who shall waste in sadness, 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, With a vague sense of something priceless gone; The husk of man with which the days were ripe,— Then, he forgot her. But, for you that slew her, Be the sky silent, be the sea serene ; 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 cold, Poor beating heart! And so the story's told. |