98
THE IMPROVISATRICE.
Might be her last; her own mild smile
Parted her placid lips in death.
Her grave is under southern skies;
Green turf and flowers o'er it rise.
Oh! nothing but a pale spring wreath
Would fade o'er her who lies beneath!
I gave her prayers—I gave her tears—
I staid awhile beside her grave;
Then led by Hope, and led by Love,
Again I cut the azure wave.
What have I more to say, my life!
But just to pray one smile of thine,
Telling I have not loved in vain—
That thou dost join these hopes of mine?
Yes, smile, sweet love! our life will be
As radiant as a fairy tale!
