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

270 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.