Classic Poem

I dreamed that I was young and glad, and staying
At the old country-house which used to stand
High on the mountain ledge, and I was playing
And racing with Ottilia hand in hand.

How finely formed the little thing! How sweetly
Her sea-green eyes bewitch me with their glance!
She stands on her small feet so firm and neatly—
A type of strength combined with elegance.

Her voice, too, rings so truly and sincerely,
And all she says so wise is and discreet!
One sees the bottom of her soul quite clearly,
Her little mouth is like a rosebud sweet.

What steals upon me is not lovers' sadness,
I do not rave, or lose my head for bliss;
Her being moves me with a strange soft gladness,
And, trembling secretly, her hand I kiss.

I plucked a lily white for her to carry,
And gave it, and spoke out with hardihood:
“Ottilia, be my wife; oh, let us marry,
That I may be as blest as you, and good!”

But what she answered I shall never know now,
For suddenly I woke—and I was here,
A poor sick man upon his bed laid low now,
And who has lain thus pining many a year.