Poetic Fancy 'T Was

Poetic fancy 't was what until now I felt,

Poetic fancy 't was, not love, which thrilled my

soul.
My aching, bleeding heart, wherein these .fancies

dwelt,
No trace of any illness shows, is strong and whole.
If love had been what caused my heart's great woe
Not even fleeting time could prove a helpful

friend
Man's passion 's a wild stream and swift its torrents

flow,
Destruction carrying along and deathly end.

'Tis only now I reached this wildly flowing stream,

It carries me along in waves that rise and swell,
The bellringers call out: the danger is supreme!

The peril's nigh! Ring out aloud the alarmbell.
The bells should toll! The folks might rush to save
me yet.

But no! My feverish heart itself 's an alarmbell:
The maiden heard it toll, it caused her no regret,

She having not, let no one else the tumult quell-

Oh girl! oh girl! that thou should'st cause me

such a woe
I did not find set forth on fate's recording scroll.
Did'st draw me on that thou could'st simply over-
throw
Poor me, or blind me with the splendor of thy

soul?
Thy soul -shines bright as shines the sun before his

rays
An eclipse caused to grow more pale, and as the

sun
Will have grown cold when he, at last, has run his

days,
So is thy own breast cold thou cruel, heartless one!

Thou said, and saying it thou didst not tremble

e'en,
Thou said, that never yet thou hast loved any one.
Fearest thou not our God's revenge which is most

keen
Because his saintly goal of life "to love" thou

darest shun?
Or doest thou think no man is worth thy sentiment
Of love, and to be told by thee: "thou art my

own!"
Or fearest thou that when thy heart its treasures

spent,
"They are forever lost" shall be thy plaintive moan.

It may be true that disillusion be thy share,

But therefore not to love no reason though.
More worth than stagnant, lifeless peace that does

not care,

Are sufferings quick with life which from life's

struggles flow.
Will man not build a home because it might well be

That at some future day a fire destroys his place?
Shall therefore he the summer's heat bear patiently,

And he submit to winter's icy arms' embrace?
But more than once I saw thy lips ope for a sigh.
'Tis easy then to know thou hast a heart which

feels.
But just as icy snow covers the Vulcan high,

Thy brain 's a shield of ice which thy true heart

conceals.
Tell me, oh girl, 't is so and patiently I wait

Until thyself shalt come to me and say: "I yield,"
Until the time shall come when we, in blissful state,

With freely given burning kiss our love have sealed
The time is long, each day I'll have to wait shall be

Like all eternity to me. but I'll not fail.
I'll feel as does the eager seaman out at sea

Whose craft toward the shore is driven by the gale.
The wind then turns and although he is near the
shore,
Nevertheless he cannot yet a safe port gain.
While this eternal longing makes me sick and sore,
For thee — my dear, — I'll deem 't is sweet to bear
my pain.
The body to whose wounds the sharp knife is
applied
Can no such pain feel as is felt by me just now.
I'd suffer not to burning stake if I'd be tied
As I do by the yearning longings I avow.
One drop of balm, I pray, put on this burning pain,
One tiny drop from hope's deep well apply sweet

maid:
That thou in time to come, be it in years, wilt deign
My woes with the reward "may be" to have repaid.

Oh no! do not encourage me with future's bliss,
It is not alms I want! My soul's salvation give!
What I said "I would wait" — as false thou must

dismiss,
My patience has long since become a fugitive, —
And wild horse like it runs, my soul with it is borne,

It runs on paths perilous to a high degree,
Where by a wild beast into shreads it might be torn,

Dost know this wild beast's name? It is — insanity!

Give me, dear maid, give me back to myself, I pray,
Give me back to the world, restore this life of

mine.
But no! keep me for sweet thyself, I wished to say,
Thou can'st thus cast me off, fore'er my life is

thine.
Tell me: "come to my loving arms! Thou hast

conquerred!"
And at these mighty words, the heavens e'en

might fall,
Who cares? Can man a death more glorious have

preferred
Than 'neath this blissful weight feel death has

ended all?

And if thou lovest me not, thy love I ne'er should

own,
"Pis all the same, united is my soul with thee
As are the leaf and twig. Ere winter's blasts have

blown
The leaves are sere and lifeless fall they from

the tree;
This is our fate, e'en to the grave- Go far away.

Shun me, — 't is all in vain, beyond all thy control.
A dark form which ne'er leaveth me. be night or day,

Thy shadow 't is? Oh, no! It is my doleful soul.