Classic Poem

She stood above the flooded stream,
Alone amid the ruin there,
Stood dreaming as a rose might dream,
Half open in the sunless air,
If once the salt sea wind of fate
Had touched her beauty with despair,
Look, child, your lover's at the gate.
See, 'tis not death that knocks to-day;
He's come, he's come, for whom you wait.
Have you no tenderer word to say
To one so faithful to his troth?
Duty has doubly hedged his way,
And sweet foreknowledge bound you both,
“Lie down as if in pleasant dreams
When you lie down aming the dead”
So says a poet: but it seems
That it were better to have said:
As if to pleasant dreams arise
Before the time to dream is fled.
So let us dream of changing skies
Of making streams and windy weather:
Though we are bound by fortune's ties
We'll be the outmost stretch the tether,
And be it gay or be it sad,
We'll dream our little dream together,
In the course of which, by the way, an occasional litter from you would be a pleasant incident.
Address. P. Adr. Fränklin Schlote
16.D Obere Karspüle
Göttingen.
P.S. My further sentiments may be Expressed in.
A Psalm of Travel,
Or what the soul of the young man said to his grandmother—

I like to leave my house and home
And spew my insides in the sea.
With just one trunk on earth to roam,
That is the bright of bliss for me;
To roam alone without my trunk—
That is the depth of misery.
I cannot part from what I prize
For all I prize is in my head;
My fancies are the fields and skies
I will not change till I am dead,
Unless indeed I lose my wits
Or what is much the same thing I wed.
That freedom cheats us with a word
Which sets up knaves and murders kings.
We are not free till we have stirred.
So cut your mother's apron strings
And putting money in your purse
Fly off on the express train's wings—
I'll stay at home when I am lame
And coppers give when I have gold,
I'll modest be when known to fame,
I will be chaste when I am old.
Then all the angels will rejoice
To bring a last sheep to the fold.
This is my only chance to taste
The sweet and bitter fruit of earth,
And in the struggle and the haste
I needn't ask without all is worth,
It isn't wasting very much
To waste the time twist??? death and birth.
Silent and strong, this many a year.
Is it your youth that makes you loth,
Or his home-coming that you fear,
Had he but plucked this whitest rose
To lay a white rose on his bier?
If in your heart, before he goes,
His heart could shed one drop of blood,
Your trembling petals, as they close,
Might bloom, and be a crimson bud.
At last she spoke: “Our spirits move
Like snake-weeds writhing in the flood.
Men marry as their fortunes prove.
The times have laid on our two hearts
The pity, not the joy, of love.”
She folds her hands, and he departs.