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To my early love from my future bride
One moment I looked, then I stole to the door,
I traversed the passage; and down at her side
I was sitting a moment more.
My thinking of her or the music's strain,
Or something which never will be expressed,
Had brought her back from the grave again,
With the Jasmine in her breast.
She is not dead, and she is not wed!
But she loves me now and she loved me then!
And the very first words that her sweet lips said,
My heart grew youthful again.
The Marchioness there, of Carabas,
She is wealthy and young and handsome still,
And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass;
She may marry whomever she will.
But I will marry my own first love,
With her primrose face, for old things are best;
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above
The brooch in my lady's breast.
The world is filled with folly and sin,
And love must cling where it can, I say,
For beauty is easy enough to win,
But one isn't loved every day.


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