Agnes.
[Eagerly.]
Glad as a king, and fresh, and free,—
And knew a thousand songs beside!
Einar.
Just as the village I pass'd through,
She chanced to dwell an inmate there.
She longed to taste the upland air,
The scented woods, the sun, the dew;
Me God unto the mountains drew,—
My heart cried out: Seek Beauty's might
In forests dim and rivers bright
And flying clouds beneath the blue.—
Then I achieved my height of art:
A rosy flush upon her cheek,
Two joyous eyes that seem'd to speak,
A smile whose music filled the heart—
Agnes.
For you, though, all that art was vain,
You drank life's beaker, blind and rapt,
And then, one sunny morn, again
Stood, staff in hand and baggage strapp'd—
Einar.
Then suddenly the thought occurr'd:
"Why, friend, the wooing is forgot!"
Hurrah! I ask'd, she gave her word,
And all was settled on the spot.
Our good old doctor, like a boy,
Was all beside himself with joy;
So three whole days, and whole nights three,
Held revelry for her and me;
Mayor and constable, clerk and priest,—
All the grown youth was at the feast.
