Myrtle and Myrrh/A Peasant's Song
A PEASANT'S SONG
O, thou, who loved me once,
From thy Pagoda glance;
Shoot down a poisoned lance:
All's well that comes from thee.
Look back, look down once more;
Dear was to thee this shore;
I see thee nevermore
Beneath the olive tree.
Remains my station low,
Whilst thou dost greater grow;
Ah, fate hath struck the blow
That parted thee and me.
How can I bear my fate,
How can I loveless wait
In this most sorry state,
When thou art far and free?
Far from the soul that swore
On love's abysmal door
To cling forevermore
To none on earth but thee;
Free from the sacred plight
Which, to dispel the night,
Thou madest, when I quite
Fell near thy bended knee.
Dost thou not still remember
Love's May and Love's December?
Both burned their sacred ember
In our sweet company.
Dost hear the echoes fall
Within thy gilded hall?
Dost thou not ever recall
The day thou wert like me?
When all thy gardens bloom,
Look out into the gloom;
There does the flame consume
Thy budless lilac tree.
There often thou didst play
A-mindless of the day
When soul to soul would say:
"No more of thee and me."
And when withers thy rose,
Throw to the wind that blows
This way a leaf; who knows
What therein I can see.
And till my course is run
I'll count them one by one—
These leaves; and may the sun
Of joy ne'er set on thee.