Why loved he not Beata? she is fair, But yet he often swore to me Beata's body Was not worth one half my finger, And then kissed me full upon the mouth as if to seal his oath; Ah! glorious seal--I feel those lips there now! And on my forehead, too, one kiss still glows Like a great star. Ah! well! those days are gone. No! no! They are not gone; I love him madly now. I love him madly as I loved him then. Ah, God! how blissfully those days went by! You could not fill a golden cup more full Of rubied wine than was my heart with joy. Long mornings in his studio, there I sat And heard his voice; or, when he did not speak, I felt his presence like a rich perfume, Fill all my thoughts. I was his model. Hours and hours I posed For him to paint his Cleopatra, fierce, With her squared brows, and full Egyptian lips; A great gold serpent on her rounded arm, And a broad band of gold around her head. At last the autumn came, the stricken, bleeding autumn. Something weighed upon his mind I could not understand. I knew all was not right, yet dared not ask. At last few words made all things plain; "Love, I must go to Venice." "Must?" "Yes, must." "Then I go, too." "No, no; ah, Nina, no. Four weeks pass swiftly; one short month, and then I shall return to Florence, and to you." Vain were my words. He went, alas! he went With all the sunshine, and I wore alone The weary weeks out of that hateful month. Another month I waited, nervous, fierce With love's impatience. When that month was gone My heart was all afire; I could not stay. Consumed with jealous fears that wore me down Into a fever, necklace, earrings--all I sold, and on to Venice rushed. How long That dreary, never-ending journey seemed! I cursed the hills up which we slowly dragged, The long, flat plains of Lombardy I cursed, That kept me back from Venice. But at last in a black gondola I swam along The sea-built city, and my heart was big With the glad thought that I was near to him. Yes, gladness came upon me that soft night, And jealousy was hushed, and hope led on My dancing heart. In vain I strove to curb My glad impatience--I must see him then, At once, that very night; I could not wait The tardy morning--'twas a year away. I only gave the gondolier his name, And said, "You know him?" "Yes." "Then row me quick to where he is." He bowed and on he went, And as we swept along, I leaned me out And dragged my burning fingers in the wave, My hurried heart forecasting to itself our meeting, What he'd say and think, How I should hang upon his neck and say: "I could not longer live without you, dear."