Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/303

My soul has found its wonted pride,
And it can scorn, flout, curse, deride.
Beware, oh dove!
And mock no more an eagle proud
That soars, far soars, the thunder-cloud
Above.

Oh, the capricious wicked child!
She loves not and she drives me wild—
She's jealous too:
Forbids all other love within
My heart, as though such love were sin—
The shrew!

Fly, swiftly fly—behold the hour
When she awaits me in her tower,
Fair, fair as spring.
Her coldness has effaced the past,
Without a tear I fly at last
And sing!

But what is here?—The green, green grass,
The lane obscure—the house, alas!
Again to-day!
Oh, well may steed and rider fret,
That cannot, though they would, forget
The way.

Fly swift, oh fly!—Put forth thy pace—
But no; I see—I see her face—
Oh, sad relapse!
One last, last farewell let me say—
To-morrow we shall go our way,
Perhaps.