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AT Paris it was, at the Opera there; | |
And she lookd like a queen in a book, that night, | |
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, | |
And the brooch on her breast, so bright. | |
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Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, | 5 |
The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; | |
And Mario can soothe with a tenor note | |
The souls in Purgatory. | |
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The moon on the tower slept soft as snow: | |
And who was not thrilld in the strangest way, | 10 |
As we heard him sing, while the gas burnd low, | |
Non ti scordar di me? | |
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The Emperor there, in his box of state, | |
Lookd grave, as if he had just then seen | |
The red flag wave from the city-gate | 15 |
Where his eagles in bronze had been. | |
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The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye. | |
You d have said that her fancy had gone back again, | |
For one moment, under the old blue sky, | |
To the old glad life in Spain. | 20 |
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Well! there in our front-row box we sat, | |
Together, my bride-betrothd and I; | |
My gaze was fixd on my opera-hat, | |
And hers on the stage hard by. | |
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And both were silent, and both were sad. | 25 |
Like a queen she leand on her full white arm, | |
With that regal, indolent air she had; | |
So confident of her charm! | |
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I have not a doubt she was thinking then | |
Of her former lord, good soul that he was! | 30 |
Who died the richest and roundest of men, | |
The Marquis of Carabas. | |
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I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, | |
Through a needles eye he had not to pass. | |
I wish him well, for the jointure given | 35 |
To my lady of Carabas. | |
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Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, | |
As I had not been thinking of aught for years, | |
Till over my eyes there began to move | |
Something that felt like tears. | 40 |
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I thought of the dress that she wore last time, | |
When we stood, neath the cypress-trees, together, | |
In that lost land, in that soft clime, | |
In the crimson evening weather; | |
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Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), | 45 |
And her warm white neck in its golden chain, | |
And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, | |
And falling loose again; | |
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And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast, | |
(O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower!) | 50 |
And the one bird singing alone to his nest, | |
And the one star over the tower. | |
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I thought of our little quarrels and strife, | |
And the letter that brought me back my ring. | |
And it all seemd then, in the waste of life, | 55 |
Such a very little thing! | |
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For I thought of her grave below the hill, | |
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over; | |
And I thought
were she only living still, | |
How I could forgive her, and love her! | 60 |
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And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, | |
And of how, after all, old things were best, | |
That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower | |
Which she used to wear in her breast. | |
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It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, | 65 |
It made me creep, and it made me cold! | |
Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet | |
Where a mummy is half unrolld. | |
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And I turnd, and lookd. She was sitting there | |
In a dim box, over the stage; and dressd | 70 |
In that muslin dress with that full soft hair, | |
And that jasmine in her breast! | |
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I was here; and she was there; | |
And the glittering horseshoe curvd between: | |
From my bride-betrothd, with her raven hair, | 75 |
And her sumptuous scornful mien, | |
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To my early love, with her eyes downcast, | |
And over her primrose face the shade | |
(In short from the Future back to the Past), | |
There was but a step to be made. | 80 |
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To my early love from my future bride | |
One moment I lookd. Then I stole to the door, | |
I traversd the passage; and down at her side | |
I was sitting, a moment more. | |
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My thinking of her, or the musics strain, | 85 |
Or something which never will be exprest, | |
Had brought her back from the grave again, | |
With the jasmine in her breast. | |
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She is not dead, and she is not wed! | |
But she loves me now, and she lovd me then! | 90 |
And the very first word that her sweet lips said, | |
My heart grew youthful again. | |
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The Marchioness there, of Carabas, | |
She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still, | |
And but for her
well, we ll let that pass, | 95 |
She may marry whomever she will. | |
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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 ladys breast. | 100 |
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The world is filld with folly and sin, | |
And Love must cling where it can, I say: | |
For Beauty is easy enough to win; | |
But one is nt lovd every day. | |
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And I think, in the lives of most women and men, | 105 |
There s a moment when all would go smooth and even, | |
If only the dead could find out when | |
To come back, and be forgiven. | |
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But O the smell of that jasmine-flower! | |
And O that music! and O the way | 110 |
That voice rang out from the donjon tower, | |
Non ti scordar di me, | |
Non ti scordar di me! | |
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