A smile is curving o'er her creamy cheek,
Her bosom swells with all a lover's joy,
When love receives a message that the coy
Young love-god made a strong and true heart speak
From far-off lands; and like a mountain-peak
That loses in one avalanche its cloy
Of ice and snow, so doth her breast employ
Its hidden store of blushes; and they wreak
Destruction, as they crush my aching heart,—
Destruction, wild, relentless, and as sure
As the poor Alpine hamlet's; and no art
Can hide my agony, no herb can cure
My wound. Her very blush says, “We must part.”
Why was it always my fate to endure?