Olga
OlgaLove! that's a feeble word,
One that means nothing. I have watched thy footsteps;
In dreams, in waking, I have lived for thee,
In every book have only read thy name,
In music heard thee only—at the altar
Have worshipped for thy sake.
Czar.Thy words are fire.
They may be true. Yet many a word of Love
From my youth up has echoed in my car,
And never aught but false ones. They were sweet,
E'en when I knew them flatteries—our folly
So craves for shows of love—until I knew
That they were treachery too. That pained me once;
But now they pass me like the idle breeze.
I heed them not.
Olga.What, none?
Czar.Yes, when a voice
Like thine breathes such sweet, passionate utterance,
It is to me as music.
Olga.Are you happy?
Czar. Happy? that is a word sovereigns like me
Have naught to do with. There is happiness,
Sometimes—I am told—in simple, humble lives—
No pride, no power—but that is not for me.
One that means nothing. I have watched thy footsteps;
In dreams, in waking, I have lived for thee,
In every book have only read thy name,
In music heard thee only—at the altar
Have worshipped for thy sake.
Czar.Thy words are fire.
They may be true. Yet many a word of Love
From my youth up has echoed in my car,
And never aught but false ones. They were sweet,
E'en when I knew them flatteries—our folly
So craves for shows of love—until I knew
That they were treachery too. That pained me once;
But now they pass me like the idle breeze.
I heed them not.
Olga.What, none?
Czar.Yes, when a voice
Like thine breathes such sweet, passionate utterance,
It is to me as music.
Olga.Are you happy?
Czar. Happy? that is a word sovereigns like me
Have naught to do with. There is happiness,
Sometimes—I am told—in simple, humble lives—
No pride, no power—but that is not for me.
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