SONG AT THE BARRICADE
We lived so merrily, all by ourselves,
On love,—that choice forbidden fruit,—
And never a word my mouth could speak
But your heart already had followed suit.
The Sorbonne was that bucolic place
Where night till day my passion throve:
'T is thus that an ardent youngster makes
The Latin Quarter a Land of Love.
O Place Maubert! O Place Dauphine!
Sky-parlor reaching heavenward far,
In whose depths, when you drew your stocking on,
I saw, methought, a shining star.
Hard-learned Plato I've long forgot:
Neither Malebranche nor Lamennais
Taught me such faith in Providence
As the flower which in your bosom lay.
You were my servant and I your slave:
O golden attic! O joy, at morn,
To lace you—watch you dressing, and viewing
Your girlish face in that glass forlorn!
Ah! who indeed could ever forget
The sky and dawn commingling still;
That ribbony, flowery, gauzy glory,
And Love's sweet nonsense talked at will?
Our garden a pot of tulips was;
Your petticoat curtained the window-pane;
I took for myself the earthen bowl,
And passed you a cup of porcelain.
What huge disasters to make us fun!
Your muff afire; your tippet lost;
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