INTERROGATORIES.
The stars, dear Fanny, were out last night,And the moon was bright on high,And the silent earth, by the clear cold light,Looked up to the dark blue sky,—But the fairest spot on her face so whiteWas the grove with the brook hard by;Can you tell, dear Fanny, what might it be,That the stars looked down on so pleasantly?There stood two forms by that moonlit grove.In the night-air damp and cold,And one was lovely and meet for love,And one was of manly mould;To the winking stars, in their arch above,Was a gentle secret told.Can you say, sweet Fanny, what might it beWas whispered last night so tenderly?A sound—yet not of a spoken word,But softer and sweeter in tone,—Like the quick low note of a startled birdThat sleeps on its nest alone,—Once and again that sound was heard,As of lips together grown.Can you guess, dear Fanny, what might it be—The sound that faltered so tenderly?I turned away with a sad, chilled heart,From that happiest spot below,—For I felt that I was a thing apart,There was none to love me so;And theonefor whom my soul founts startIs froward and cold, you know.Can you think, sweet Fanny, who may it beThat my thoughtswilldwell on so heavily?I sometimes dream of a happier lot,Of a heart that is all my own,—Of a quiet hearth, and a vine-clad cot,Where peace may dwell alone,—Where sorrow and bitterness enter not,Or vanish at love’s soft tone;And all last night I was dreaming of you—Do you know, dear Fanny, if dreams prove true?
The stars, dear Fanny, were out last night,And the moon was bright on high,And the silent earth, by the clear cold light,Looked up to the dark blue sky,—But the fairest spot on her face so whiteWas the grove with the brook hard by;Can you tell, dear Fanny, what might it be,That the stars looked down on so pleasantly?There stood two forms by that moonlit grove.In the night-air damp and cold,And one was lovely and meet for love,And one was of manly mould;To the winking stars, in their arch above,Was a gentle secret told.Can you say, sweet Fanny, what might it beWas whispered last night so tenderly?A sound—yet not of a spoken word,But softer and sweeter in tone,—Like the quick low note of a startled birdThat sleeps on its nest alone,—Once and again that sound was heard,As of lips together grown.Can you guess, dear Fanny, what might it be—The sound that faltered so tenderly?I turned away with a sad, chilled heart,From that happiest spot below,—For I felt that I was a thing apart,There was none to love me so;And theonefor whom my soul founts startIs froward and cold, you know.Can you think, sweet Fanny, who may it beThat my thoughtswilldwell on so heavily?I sometimes dream of a happier lot,Of a heart that is all my own,—Of a quiet hearth, and a vine-clad cot,Where peace may dwell alone,—Where sorrow and bitterness enter not,Or vanish at love’s soft tone;And all last night I was dreaming of you—Do you know, dear Fanny, if dreams prove true?
The stars, dear Fanny, were out last night,And the moon was bright on high,And the silent earth, by the clear cold light,Looked up to the dark blue sky,—But the fairest spot on her face so whiteWas the grove with the brook hard by;Can you tell, dear Fanny, what might it be,That the stars looked down on so pleasantly?
The stars, dear Fanny, were out last night,
And the moon was bright on high,
And the silent earth, by the clear cold light,
Looked up to the dark blue sky,—
But the fairest spot on her face so white
Was the grove with the brook hard by;
Can you tell, dear Fanny, what might it be,
That the stars looked down on so pleasantly?
There stood two forms by that moonlit grove.In the night-air damp and cold,And one was lovely and meet for love,And one was of manly mould;To the winking stars, in their arch above,Was a gentle secret told.Can you say, sweet Fanny, what might it beWas whispered last night so tenderly?
There stood two forms by that moonlit grove.
In the night-air damp and cold,
And one was lovely and meet for love,
And one was of manly mould;
To the winking stars, in their arch above,
Was a gentle secret told.
Can you say, sweet Fanny, what might it be
Was whispered last night so tenderly?
A sound—yet not of a spoken word,But softer and sweeter in tone,—Like the quick low note of a startled birdThat sleeps on its nest alone,—Once and again that sound was heard,As of lips together grown.Can you guess, dear Fanny, what might it be—The sound that faltered so tenderly?
A sound—yet not of a spoken word,
But softer and sweeter in tone,—
Like the quick low note of a startled bird
That sleeps on its nest alone,—
Once and again that sound was heard,
As of lips together grown.
Can you guess, dear Fanny, what might it be—
The sound that faltered so tenderly?
I turned away with a sad, chilled heart,From that happiest spot below,—For I felt that I was a thing apart,There was none to love me so;And theonefor whom my soul founts startIs froward and cold, you know.Can you think, sweet Fanny, who may it beThat my thoughtswilldwell on so heavily?
I turned away with a sad, chilled heart,
From that happiest spot below,—
For I felt that I was a thing apart,
There was none to love me so;
And theonefor whom my soul founts start
Is froward and cold, you know.
Can you think, sweet Fanny, who may it be
That my thoughtswilldwell on so heavily?
I sometimes dream of a happier lot,Of a heart that is all my own,—Of a quiet hearth, and a vine-clad cot,Where peace may dwell alone,—Where sorrow and bitterness enter not,Or vanish at love’s soft tone;And all last night I was dreaming of you—Do you know, dear Fanny, if dreams prove true?
I sometimes dream of a happier lot,
Of a heart that is all my own,—
Of a quiet hearth, and a vine-clad cot,
Where peace may dwell alone,—
Where sorrow and bitterness enter not,
Or vanish at love’s soft tone;
And all last night I was dreaming of you—
Do you know, dear Fanny, if dreams prove true?