Dearest, that sit'st in dreams, Through the window look, this way. How changed and desolate seems The world, Ida, to-day!
Heavy and low the sky is glooming: Winter is coming! My dreaming heart is stirr'd: Sadly the winter comes!
The wind is loud: how weird, Heard in these darken'd rooms! Speak to me, Raymond; ease this dread: I am afraid, afraid.
Love, what is this? Like snow Thy cheeks feel, snow they wear. What ails my darling so? What is it thou dost hear?
Close, close, thy soft arms cling to mine: Tears on thy lashes shine. Hark! love, the wind wails by The wet October trees,
Swaying them mournfully: The wet leaves shower and cease. And hark! how blows the weary rain, Against the shaken pane.
Ah, yes, the world is drear Outside; there is no rest. But what can Ida fear, Shelter'd upon my breast?
Heed not the storm-blast, beating wild, I love thee, love thee, child. Thy breath is in my hair, Thy kisses on my cheek;
Yet I scarce feel them there: Faintly I hear thee speak. My heart is dreaming far away, In some sad, future day.
The future? In the mist Of years what dost thou see? O let that dark land rest: Come back, come back to me!
Look up! How fix'd and vacant seem Thine eyes; so deep they dream. To leave the blessed light: Cold in the grave to lie!
No voice, no human sight: Darkness and apathy! To die!‘ tis hard, ere youth is o'er; But ah, to love no more!
What dream is this, alas! O, if but for my sake, Wake, darling; let this pass: Ida, dear Ida, wake!
I cannot bear to see those tears: Thy sad tones hurt my ears. Will he forget me, then, When I am gone away?
‘ Twere best: to give him pain, Let not my memory stay. But O, even there, in Hades dim, I would remember him.
Thou griev'st thyself in vain: Sweet love, be comforted. Come, leave this world of rain; To the bright hearth turn thy head.
We have our fireside still, the same: How cheerful is the flame! Though darkness round us press; Though wild, without, it blows;
Here sit thee, while thy face In the happy firelight glows: Clasp'd in my arms, lie tranquil here; And listen, Ida dear.
As, from that outlook chill, The glad hearth meets our sight, A charm for every ill We bear, a charm of might.
Ah,‘ gainst its power not death shall stay! Know'st thou it, darling, say? Thou smilest! Joy, I see, Dawns in thine eyes again:
Those cheeks of ivory Their own sweet bloom regain. Thou know'st that heavenly charm; how well, Thy happy kisses tell!
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