THE IMPROVISATRICE.
93
A delicate, frail thing,—but made
For spring sunshine, or summer shade;—
A slender flower, unmeet to bear
One April shower,—so slight, so fair.
I loved her as a brother loves
His favourite sister:—and when war
First called me from our long-shared home
To bear my father's sword afar,
I parted from her,—not as one
Whose life and soul are wrung by parting:
With death-cold brow and throbbing pulse,
And burning tears like life-blood starting.
Lost in war dreams, I scarcely heard
The prayer that bore my name above:
The 'Farewell!' that kissed off her tears
Had more of pity than of love!
