  "POURQUOI," she breathed, then drooped her head, (Pure snow-drifts to the sunset wed) As all my weakness I confessed. I shewed how I had done my best, Though long ago I should have fled, Knowing all hope, for me, was dead; And now my heart would die, unfed. She murmured low, (was it in jest?) "Pourquoi?" That winsome face, all rosy red,— I turned towards me,—gone was dread! She came as birdlings to their nest At eventide; so was I blest By that one precious, softly-said "Pourquoi?" |
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