Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/105

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A delicate, frail thing,—but made For spring sunshine, or summer shade;— A slender flower, unmeet to bear One April shower,—so slight, so fair. I loved her as a brother loves His favourite sister:—and when war First called me from our long-shared home To bear my father's sword afar, I parted from her,—not as one Whose life and soul are wrung by parting: With death-cold brow and throbbing pulse, And burning tears like life-blood starting. Lost in war dreams, I scarcely heard The prayer that bore my name above: The 'Farewell!' that kissed off her tears Had more of pity than of love!