While the market-place, in every corner,
Teemed with life and bustle and confusion.
In the house was going now and coming
Up and down the stairs, and doors were creaking
Backwards now, now forwards,—footsteps clattered.
Yet, as though it were a thing all-living,
From my cherished hope I could not tear me.
When at length the sun, in hated splendour,
Fell upon my walls, upon my windows,
Up I sprang, and hastened to the garden,
There to blend my breath, so hot and yearning,
With the cool refreshing morning breezes,
And, it might be, even there to meet thee:
But I cannot find thee in the arbour,
Or the avenue of lofty lindens.
THE VISIT.
To-day I thought to steal upon my darling,
But the door was closed of her apartments.
Of a key, however, I am master;
Noislessly I glide within the doorway.
In the salon found I not the maiden,
Found the maiden not within the parlour,
But on tiptoe entering her chamber,
There I find her, sunk in graceful slumber,
In her robes, upon the sofa lying.
At her work had slumber overtaken her;
And the netting, with the needles, rested
'Twixt the fair hands that hung crosswise folded.
Silently I sate me down beside her,
And awhile I mused if I should wake her.
