17 Evil Dreams
In vision once more young and happy, paced I
Near the old country house that used to stand
Hard by the mountain; down the pathway raced I,
Yes, raced with dear Ottilia, hand in hand.
How graceful was her figure! She enchanted
With the sweet magic of her sea-green eyes;
On her small feet how firmly was she planted,
A form where elegance with vigour vies!
Her voice’s tone, how true and how confiding!
Her spirit’s inmost depth one seems to see;
Wisdom her every word is ever guiding,
Her mouth’s as like a rosebud as can be.
It is not pangs of love that now steal o’er me,
I wander not, my reason’s in command;
Yet strangely am I soften’d, as before me
She stands, with trembling warmth I kiss her hand.
When I a lily from the stem had broken,
I gave it her, and then these words address’d:
“Ottilia, be my wife by this dear token,
“That I may be as good as thee, and blest.”
The answer that she gave, it reach’d me never,
For presently I woke,—and now lie here
In my sick chamber, weak and ill as ever—
As I have hopeless lain for many a year.