Thus ran the words; or rather, thus did run Their purport. Idly seeking in the chest (You see it yonder), I had found them there: Some blotted sheets of paper in a case, With a woman’s name writ on it: “Adelaide.” Twice on the writing there was scored the date Of ten years back; and where the words had end Was left a space, a dash, a half-writ word, As tho’ the writer minded, presently The matter to pursue. I questioned her, That worthy, worthy soul, my châtelaine, Who, nothing loth, made answer. There had been Another lodger ere I had the rooms, Three months gone by--a woman. “Young, sir? No. Must have seen forty if she’d seen a day! A lonesome woman; hadn’t many friends; Wrote books, I think, and things for newspapers. Short in her temper--eyes would flash and flame At times, till I was frightened. Paid her rent Most regular, like a lady. Ten years back, They say (at least Ann Brown says), ten years back The lady had a lover. Even then She must have been no chicken. Three months since She died. Well, well, the Lord is kind and just. I did my best to tend her, yet indeed It’s bad for trade to have a lodger die. Her brother came, a week before she died: Buried her, took her things, threw in the fire The littered heaps of paper. Yes, the sheets, They must have been forgotten in the chest;-- I never knew her name was Adelaide.” _A Dirge._ “_Mein Herz, mein Herz ist traurig_ _Doch lustig leuchtet der Mai._” [Illustration: text decoration] There’s May amid the meadows, There’s May amid the trees; Her May-time note the cuckoo Sends forth upon the breeze. Above the rippling river May swallows skim and dart; November and December Keep watch within my heart. The spring breathes in the breezes, The woods with wood-notes ring, And all the budding hedgerows Are fragrant of the spring. In secret, silent places The live green things upstart; Ice-bound, ice-crown’d dwells winter For ever in my heart. Upon the bridge I linger, Near where the lime-trees grow; Above, swart birds are circling, Beneath, the stream runs slow. A stripling and a maiden Come wand’ring up the way; His eyes are glad with springtime, Her face is fair with May. Of warmth and sun and sweetness All nature takes a part; The ice of all the ages Weighs down upon my heart. _The Sick Man and the Nightingale._ (FROM LENAU.) So late, and yet a nightingale? Long since have dropp’d the blossoms pale, The summer fields are ripening, And yet a sound of spring?