THE GRAND DUKE
THE GRAND DUKE
You gave me flowers in the crimson eves,
Down by the garden gate,
Where, on his throne of glad geranium leaves,
The Grand Duke sat in state.
You pitied him—the Grand Duke—and you sent
A rare and budding bride,
A lithe and fragrant Duchess, dew-be-sprent,
Snow-bosomed and blue-eyed.
Anon, the Grand Duke frowned and stood apart—
The cold and bashful churl!
Until you bound them, darling, heart to heart,
With one enamored curl.
Ah me! I have the plaintive bouquet here,
With all its lustre fled;
The lissome bride on her geranium bier,
And the dear Grand Duke—dead.
And many sad and sombre thoughts arise
Within me and without;
Spectres of flowerets pictured on mine eyes,
Robed in a shroud of doubt.
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