She stands in silks of purple,
Like a splendid flower in bloom;
She moves, and the air is laden
With delicate perfume.
The over-vigilant mamma
Can never let her be:
She must play this march for another,
And sing that song for me.
I wonder if she remembers
The song I made for her:
"_The hopes of love are frailer
Than lines of gossamer_":
Made when we strolled together
Through fields of happy June,
And our hearts kept time together,
With birds and brooks in tune,--
And I was so glad of loving,
That I must mimic grief,
And, trusting in love forever,
Must fable unbelief.
I did not hear the prelude,--
I was thinking of these old things.
She is fairer and wiser and older
Than----What is it she sings?
"_The hopes of love are frailer
Than lines of gossamer_."
Alas! the bitter wisdom
Of the song I made for her!