A Peasant’s Song

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A Peasant’s Song

O, thou, who loved me once,

From thy Pagoda glance;

Shoot down a poisoned lance:

All’s well that comes from thee.

Look back, look down once more;

Dear was to thee this shore;

I see thee nevermore

Beneath the olive tree.

Remains my station low,

Whilst thou dost greater grow;

Ah, fate hath struck the blow

That parted thee and me.

How can I bear my fate,

How can I loveless wait

In this most sorry state,

When thou art far and free?

Far from the soul that swore

On love’s abysmal door

To cling forevermore

To none on earth but thee;

Free from the sacred plight

Which, to dispel the night,

Thou madest, when I quite

Fell near thy bended knee.

Dost thou not still remember

Love’s May and Love’s December?

Both burned their sacred ember

In our sweet company.

Dost hear the echoes fall

Within thy gilded hall?

Dost thou not ever recall

The day thou wert like me?

When all thy gardens bloom,

Look out into the gloom;

There does the flame consume

Thy budless lilac tree.

There often thou didst play

A-mindless of the day

When soul to soul would say:

“No more of thee and me.”

And when withers thy rose,

Throw to the wind that blows

This way a leaf; who knows

What therein I can see.

And till my course is run

I’ll count them one by one⁠—

These leaves; and may the sun

Of joy ne’er set on thee.