She knew where I had been, what I had done,
What work was planned, and what begun;
My troubles, failures, fears she understood,
And touched them with a heart so kind,
That every care was melted from my mind,
And every hope grew bright,
And life seemed moving on to happy ends.
(Ah, what self-beggared fool was he
That said a woman cannot be
The very best of friends?)
Then there were memories of old times,
Recalled with many a gentle jest;
And at the last she brought the book of rhymes
We made together, trying to translate
The Songs of Heine (hers were always best).
"Now come," she said,
"To-night we will collaborate
Again; I'll put you to the test.
Here's one I never found the way to do,--
The simplest are the hardest ones, you know,--
I give this song to you."
And then she read:
_Mein Kind, wir waren Kinder,
Zwei Kinder, jung und froh._
* * * * *
But all the while, a silent question stirred
Within me, though I dared not speak the word:
"Is it herself, and is she truly here,
And was I dreaming when I heard
That she was dead last year?
Or was it true, and is she but a shade
Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear,
Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade
When her sweet ghostly part is played
And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?"
But while my heart was troubled by this fear
So deeply that I could not speak it out,
Lest all my happiness should disappear,
I thought me of a cunning way
To hide the question and dissolve the doubt.
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