“Pourquoi,” she breathed, then drooped her head,
( Pure snow-drifts to the sunset wed )
As all my weakness I confessed.
I shewed how I had done my best,
Though long ago I should have fled,
Knowing all hope, for me, was dead;
And now my heart would die, unfed.
She murmured low, ( was it in jest? )
“Pourquoi?”
That winsome face, all rosy red,—
I turned towards me,— gone was dread!
She came as birdlings to their nest
At eventide; so was I blest
By that one precious, softly-said
“Pourquoi?”