Classic Poem

Woe, he went galloping into the war,
Clara, Clara!
Let us two dream: shall he 'scape with a scar?
Scarcely disfigurement, rather a grace
Making for manhood which nowise we mar:
See, while I kiss it, the flush on his face —
Rosny, Rosny!

Light does he laugh: " With your love in my soul" —
(Clara, Clara!)
" How could I other than — sound, safe and whole —
Cleave who opposed me asunder, yet stand
Scatheless beside you, as, touching love's goal,
Who won the race kneels, craves reward at your hand —
Rosny, Rosny?"

Ay, but if certain who envied should see!
Clara, Clara,
Certain who simper: " The hero for me
Hardly of life were so chary as miss
Death — death and fame — that's love's guerdon when she
Boasts, proud bereaved one, her choice fell on this
Rosny, Rosny!"

So, — go on dreaming, — he lies 'mid a heap
(Clara, Clara,)
Of the slain by his hand: what is death but a sleep?
Dead, with my portrait displayed on his breast:
Love wrought his undoing: " No prudence could keep
The love-maddened wretch from his fate." That is best,
Rosny, Rosny!