Anita Fitch

TWO lovers wakened in their tombs—

They had been dead a hundred years—

And in the langue of old Provence

They spoke of ancient tears.

“M’amour,” she called, “I’ve pardoned you;”

(How sad her dreaming seemed to be!)

“When I had kissed your dead face once

Love’s sweet returned to me.”

“M’amour,” he called, “it was too late.”

(How dreary seemed his ghostly sighs!)

“Blessed the soul that love forgives,”

He whispered, “ere it dies.”

And then they turned again and slept

With must and mold in ancient way;

And so they’ll sleep and wake, ’tis told,

Until the Judgment Day.

ENVOI

O damoiseau et damoiselle,

Guard ye your loving while ye live!

Sin not against love’s sacred flame—

While yet ye may, forgive.