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LORSQUE SEUL AVEC TOI.
Oh press me no more for the cause of my sadness!It is not the want of affectionate gladness.Oh no!—when I see you thus leaning above me,When you fold your arms round me and tell me you love me,My own, my adored one, there is not a blissOn earth that I hope for so perfect as this.But then, even then, in the moments most dearA voice that I know not seems close to my ear,And whispers its warning with withering breathThat the torch of our love must be darken'd in death,That bliss will soon vanish with vanishing years;—Oh then my soul shivers, and shrinks from its fears—From the cold thought, that tells me our love and our joyAre dreams which a touch may for ever destroy!
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