| |
| “WE will go, my love, together to the golden autumn field; | |
| Ah! mellow falls the sunshine where the roses blow; | |
| This day in wood and meadow we ’ll forget the pale lips sealed; | |
| This day to love and gladness, whate’er the morrows yield.” | |
| Sweet, sweet the peaceful forest where the cool streams flow. | 5 |
| |
| Through the dread plague-stricken city passed the lovers on their way, | |
| Far floats the yellow banner in the morning’s glow; | |
| Through the ranks of dead and dying, where the fever-smitten lay, | |
| Through the wailing and the horror of the fateful autumn day. | |
| Ah! God’s wrath lieth heavy where the south-winds blow. | 10 |
| |
| “Nay, love, why gaze you backward at the dead-cart in its round? | |
| Tolls the solemn death-bell, tolling long and slow; | |
| Death holds the pallid city, but we ’ll cross its farthest bound, | |
| And forget for one brief hour every ghastly sight and sound.” | |
| List! that voice that crieth, “Woe, ye people, woe!” | 15 |
| |
| Like children through the meadows they wandered, hand in hand; | |
| Soft the mossy hillocks where the violets grow; | |
| They gathered leaf and flower; but she wrote upon the sand, | |
| “Ay, strong is love, but stronger is Death’s unsparing hand.” | |
| Sad the under voices in the river’s flow. | 20 |
| |
| “Why speak of death, belovéd? to-day is surely ours; | |
| Each hour holds a secret which the angels know; | |
| Yon gracious sky above us, our feet upon the flowers; | |
| Why vex with thoughts of dolor the peace of happy hours?” | |
| Swift the lights and shadows where the aspens grow. | 25 |
| |
| The air is thrilled with bird notes, in the rapture of their singing; | |
| Minor chords are sounding in the dove’s plaint, soft and low; | |
| I am drunken with the gladness that Nature’s grace is bringing. | |
| Be merry, then, O sweetheart; list the woodland chorus ringing.” | |
| Far-off bells are tolling a requiem, sad and slow. | 30 |
| |
| She closed her heavy eyelids, laid her head upon his shoulder; | |
| Nevermore the dreaming of the happy long ago. | |
| “Alas! love, ’neath the flowers I see the dead leaves moulder. | |
| I am chill, so chill and weary; has the sunny day grown colder?” | |
| Autumn leaves are falling, as the west-winds come and go. | 35 |
| |
| Plague-stricken? Yes, O lover, for the Yellow King has seized her, | |
| Vast the realm of shadows, where no earth winds blow; | |
| Midst the bird songs and the clover and the fresh free air he claims her. | |
| Vainly, vainly from his power would thy frantic love withhold her. | |
| Weep o’er sweetest flowers, killed by winter’s snow. | 40 |
| |
| He laid her ’neath the aspens, but e’er the first gray dawning, | |
| Blessed the peaceful garden where God’s lilies blow, | |
| Her lovely eyes half opened, and without sigh or warning, | |
| Her soul beyond the shadows had sprung to meet the morning. | |
| Oh, the blissful morning which His people know! | 45 |
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