CHERRY-RED her mouth was, Morning-blue her eye,

Until again I hear thy whispered vow

And feel thy pressing hands.

Then the bright sun seems to stand still in heaven,

The stream sings gladly as it onward flows,

The rushes grow more green, the grass more even, Blossoms the budding rose.

I say: It is a joy-dream; I will take it;

He is not gone-he will return to me.'

What found'st thou in my heart that thou shouldst break it? How have I injured thee?

Rounded prettily;

And her sweet smile of gladness

Made every heart rejoice:

But sweeter even than her smile The tones were of her voice.

Sometimes she spoke, sometimes she sang;

And evermore the sound
Floated, a dreamy melody,

Upon the air around;
As though a wind were singing
Far up beside the sun,
Till sound and warmth and glory
Were blended all in one.

Her hair was long and golden,

And clustered unconfined
Over a forehead high and white

That spoke a noble mind.
Her little hand, her little foot,
Were ready evermore
To hurry forth to meet a friend;
She smiling at the door.

Husband, leave me; but know this:

I would gladly give my soul
So that thine might dwell in bliss
Free from the accurst control,
So that thou mightest go hence
In a hopeful penitence.

Yea from hell I would look up,

And behold thee in thy place, Drinking of the living cup,

With the joy-look on thy face, And the light that shines alone From the glory of the Throne.

But how could my endless loss

Be thine everlasting gain? Shall thy palm grow from my cross? Shall thine ease be in my pain ?

Yea thine own soul witnesseth Thy life is not in my death.

It were vain that I should die—
That we thus should perish both;
Thou wouldst gain no peace thereby ;
And in truth I should be loth
By the loss of my salvation
To increase thy condemnation.

Little infant, his and mine,

Would that I were as thou art; Nothing breaks that sleep of thine,

And ah nothing breaks thy heart; And thou knowest naught of strife, The heart's death for the soul's life.

None misdoubt thee, none misdeem

Of thy wishes and thy will. All thy thoughts are what they seem, Very pure and very still; And thou fearest not the voice That once made thy heart rejoice.

Oh how calm thou art, my child!
I could almost envy thee.
Thou has neither wept nor smiled,
Thou that sleepest quietly.
Would I also were at rest
With the one that I love best.

Husband, go. I dare not hearken To thy words or look upon Those despairing eyes that darken

Down on me-But he is gone! Nay, come back, and be my fate As thou wilt-It is too late.

I have conquered; it is done, Yea the death-struggle is o'er, And the hopeless quiet won :

I shall see his face no more:And mine eyes are waxing dim Now they cannot look on him.