Are ever thus; with brow perplexed,
He'd sit at clavichord intently
And play but chords; or turning gently
To Olga, he would whisper low:
'I'm happy, love . . . it's true, you know.'
But now it's late and time for leaving.
His heart, so full of pain, drew tight;
And as he bid the girl goodnight,
He felt it break with desperate grieving.
'What's wrong?' She peered at him, intent.
'It's nothing.' And away he went.
20
On coming home, the youth inspected
His pistols; then he put them back.
Undressed, by candle he selected
A book of Schiller's from the rack;
But only one bright image holds him,
One thought within his heart enfolds him:
He sees before him, wondrous fair,
His incandescent Olga there.
He shuts the book and, with decision,
Takes up his pen. . . . His verses ring
With all the nonsense lovers sing;
And feverish with lyric vision,
He reads them out like one possessed,
Like drunken Delvig* at a fest!
21
By chance those verses haven't vanished;
I have them, and I quote them here:
'Ah, whither, whither are ye banished,
My springtime's golden days so dear?
What fate will morning bring my lyre?
In vain my searching eyes enquire,
For all lies veiled in misty dust.
No matter; fate's decree is just;
And whether, pierced,
I fall anointed,
Or arrow passes byall's right:
The hours of waking and of night
Come each in turn as they're appointed;
And blest with all its cares the day,
And blest the dark that comes to stay!
22
'The morning star will gleam tomorrow,
And brilliant day begin to bloom;
While I, perhaps, descend in sorrow
The secret refuge of the tomb. . . .
Slow Lethe, then, with grim insistence,
Will drown my memory's brief existence;
Of me the world shall soon grow dumb;
