 | Ernest |  |
Now, o'er the dank
Morass, they picked their path, and the steep hill
From haughtiness began to condescend
Toward the level; in like grade their course
From cripple and halt ran out into a race
Of easy smooth descent. Onward they pass'd,
Their shadows shortening now on the hill,
Then rippling on the brook; until its shoals
They forded, threading next the lovely dale.
Thence, sudden, at a turn, young Linsingen
Waving o'er head his hat—“Look, there it is;
Ten minutes more, Lucy, we're home—nay then,
Say me not, no: What wilt thou wage?—a crown?—
A kiss?—nay, but forgive me, frown not so,
But soften thy brow's sadness to a smile,
To greet—not me then—but the old Tower.”
Morass, they picked their path, and the steep hill
From haughtiness began to condescend
Toward the level; in like grade their course
From cripple and halt ran out into a race
Of easy smooth descent. Onward they pass'd,
Their shadows shortening now on the hill,
Then rippling on the brook; until its shoals
They forded, threading next the lovely dale.
Thence, sudden, at a turn, young Linsingen
Waving o'er head his hat—“Look, there it is;
Ten minutes more, Lucy, we're home—nay then,
Say me not, no: What wilt thou wage?—a crown?—
A kiss?—nay, but forgive me, frown not so,
But soften thy brow's sadness to a smile,
To greet—not me then—but the old Tower.”
| Ernest | |