A DIRGE

Death and a dirge at midnight;

Yet never a soul in the house

Heard anything more than the throb and beat

Of a beautiful waltz of Strauss.

Dead, dead, dead, and staring,

With a ghastly smile on its face;

But the world saw only laughing eyes

And roses, and billows of lace.

Floating and whirling together,

Into the beautiful night,

How little you dreamed of the ghastly thing

I was hiding away from your sight.

Meeting your dark eyes’ splendour,

Feeling your warm, sweet breath,

How could you know that my passionate heart

Had died a horrible death?

Died in its fever and fervour,

Died in its beautiful bloom;

And that waltz of Strauss was a funeral dirge,

Leading the way to the tomb.

But you held my hand at parting,

And I smiled back a gay good night;

And you never knew of the ghastly corpse

I was hiding away from your sight.

Yet whenever I hear the Danube —

Under its pulsing strain,

I catch the wail of the funeral dirge,

And my heart dies over again.