GERTRUDE.

What shall I say, my friend, my own heart healing,

When for my love you cannot answer me?

This earth would quake, alas! might I but see

You smile, death's rigorous law repealing!

Pale lips, your mystery so well concealing,

May not the eloquent, varied minstrelsy

Of my inspired ardor potent be

To touch your chords to music's uttered feeling?

Friend, here you cherished flowers: send me now

One ghostly bloom to prove that you are blessed.

No? If denial such as brands my brow

Be in your heavenly regions, too, confessed,

Oh may it prove the truth that your still eyes

Foresee the end of all futurities!