A smile is curving o'er her creamy cheek,

Her bosom swells with all a lover's joy,

When love receives a message that the coy

Young love-god made a strong and true heart speak

From far-off lands; and like a mountain-peak

That loses in one avalanche its cloy

Of ice and snow, so doth her breast employ

Its hidden store of blushes; and they wreak

Destruction, as they crush my aching heart,—

Destruction, wild, relentless, and as sure

As the poor Alpine hamlet's; and no art

Can hide my agony, no herb can cure

My wound. Her very blush says, "We must part."

Why was it always my fate to endure?