We were driving home from the "Patriarchs'"--
Molly Lefévre and I, you know;
The white flakes fluttered about our lamps;
Our wheels were hushed in the sleeping snow.
Her white arms nestled amid her furs;
Her hands half-held, with languid grace,
Her fading roses; fair to see
Was the dreamy look in her sweet, young face.
I watched her, saying never a word,
For I would not waken those dreaming eyes.
The breath of the roses filled the air,
And my thoughts were many, and far from wise.
At last I said to her, bending near,
"Ah, Molly Lefévre, how sweet 'twould be,
To ride on dreaming, all our lives,
Alone with the roses--you and me."
Her sweet lips faltered, her sweet eyes fell,
And, low as the voice of a Summer rill,
Her answer came. It was--"Yes, perhaps--
But who would settle our carriage bill?"
The dying roses breathed their last,
Our wheels rolled loud on the stones just then,
Where the snow had drifted; the subject dropped.
It has never been taken up again.