FROM PHYLLIS.
Dearest, I read the books you sent, because
You sent them—but they re far too grave for me.
I like not serious stories, nor wise saws,
Chilling my youth with fear of ills to be.
But be not angry, since at your request
I read them all, and found the love-tale best.
You sent them—but they re far too grave for me.
I like not serious stories, nor wise saws,
Chilling my youth with fear of ills to be.
But be not angry, since at your request
I read them all, and found the love-tale best.
Yet that was sad, too, and one sentence there
Tried and tormented me—that's why I write.
You ve read the book. Do you remember where
The hero was made prisoner in the fight?
The heroine, to save her lover's life,
Renounced him and became his rival's wife.
Tried and tormented me—that's why I write.
You ve read the book. Do you remember where
The hero was made prisoner in the fight?
The heroine, to save her lover's life,
Renounced him and became his rival's wife.
And he reproached her: "Were I in your place
My life without you had been little worth."
"I d live," she said, "through pain and through disgrace
To know you lived, though dead to me on earth."
Dearest, this troubled me, because, you see,
I d rather die than have you dead to me.
My life without you had been little worth."
"I d live," she said, "through pain and through disgrace
To know you lived, though dead to me on earth."
Dearest, this troubled me, because, you see,
I d rather die than have you dead to me.
C. D.