Romance

I
I have placed a golden
Ring upon the hand
Of the blithest little
Lady in the land!

When the early roses
Scent the sunny air,
She shall gather white ones
To tremble in her hair!

Hasten, happy roses,
Come to me by May—
In your folded petals
Lies my wedding-day.

II
The chestnuts shine through the cloven rind,
And the woodland leaves are red, my dear;
The scarlet fuchsias burn in the wind—
Funeral plumes for the Year!

The Year which has brought me so much woe
That if it were not for you, my dear,
I could wish the fuchsias' fire might glow
For me as well as the Year.

III
Out from the depths of my heart
Had arisen this single cry,
Let me behold my belovéd,
Let me behold her, and die.

At last, like a sinful soul
At the portals of Heaven I lie,
Never to walk with the blest,
Ah, never!... only to die.