RONDEAU.— POURQUOI?

“Pourquoi,” she breathed, then drooped her head,

( Pure snow-drifts to the sunset wed )

As all my weakness I confessed.

I shewed how I had done my best,

Though long ago I should have fled,

Knowing all hope, for me, was dead;

And now my heart would die, unfed.

She murmured low, ( was it in jest? )

“Pourquoi?”

That winsome face, all rosy red,—

I turned towards me,— gone was dread!

She came as birdlings to their nest

At eventide; so was I blest

By that one precious, softly-said

“Pourquoi?”