“Be at the opera”—you write—to-night—
The crimson rose I send on your breast wear,
My lips had blessed it ere I sent it where
They, too, have lain and learned love’s speech aright.
“I cannot wait”—you say—“till comes our night;
_Tu esposo_—I know, yes, he’ll be there,
But that I’ll suffer if you’ll grant me, Fair,
One glimpse of you. O! let me know. Write! Write!”
Yes, Sweet! and when the trumpets leap and sing,
And fiddle-bows rise, fall, like trees swaying
Beneath an angry storm when winds are strong,
Ear-dulled, the present blotted with the past,
My love shall rise and reach you, hold you fast,
And vanish with you on the wings of song!
X
What pictures do we see when memories frown
Alone and here together, Dearest One!
I first saw light beneath a pallid sun,
The northern stars upon my youth looked down.
You, where the earth wears best its flowery crown,
Where fiercest, mightiest, doth blaze the sun,
Not star-like to it was my pallid one,
The Southern Cross upon your youth looked down.
O! shed upon me all your blaze of lights,
Fill well my soul for what it missed of yore,
Enrich me ever with your flowery lore!
I can recall no more the northern nights!
I know when on my mouth is set your mouth
The sensuous, sweet savors of the South.