In old, dim days—nay, passionate, poignant true—
Love drunken Werther raved, despaired and died
The other day I read it all anew
And, ere I shut the covers, stepped inside
And found good Albert making from the room,
A little puzzled, busy, narrow, trim;
And Werther crouching in ecstatic gloom
While Lotte played that magic air for him.
Young, modest, generous and fair were they.
And when that little melody was played
He kissed her hand and wept—how cool it lay
In his, impassioned, hers, all unafraid!
Their twilight falls. Our insolent day shows,
(Bright feathers in the cold deserted nest),
Her pretty ribbons and her furbelows,
His curious long blue coat and yellow vest.