11: Lise

I was twelve; she was going-on sixteen.
She was tall, I was on the small side.
To speak with her more freely at evening,
I would wait for her mother to go outside;
Then I’d come in and sit next to her chair
To speak more free in the evening, there.

How many blooms trampled by Time’s quick feet!
How many fires quenched, how many sealed tombs!
Does anyone remember that hearts once beat?
Does anyone remember that roses bloomed?
She loved me. I loved her. We were, in God’s sight,
Two pure children, two fragrances, two rays of light.

God had made her angel, fairy, princess.
And since she was by so much taller than I,
My asking her questions could be endless
For the sheer pleasure of saying to her: “Why?”
And many times, she would shyly evade all
My dreamy gaze that made her so heedful.

Then I’d regale her with all my chitchatting,
Show her my games, my swift top, my large ball;
I was so proud to be learning my Latin;
I showed her my Phaedrus and my Virgil;
I braved all things; nothing was stopping us there;
I’d tell her: “My father’s an army officer.”

Latin is needful, even for girls, for Lise,
Dreamily to spell out its words—to look
Translating a verse at church-service to please her
I would often lean over her prayerbook.
A stone angel spread its white wing to crest us
As we attended Sunday Vespers.

She would say of me: “Oh, he’s only a child!”
And I would call her Mademoiselle Lise.
To translate a psalm for her, quite often I’d,
Lean over her book at church to please her;
And then one day—oh, heavens!—you saw it:
Her blooming cheek touched my burning lip.

Young loves, whose blossoms so swiftly unfold,
You are the heart’s dawn and morning’s tomorrow.
Enchant the child, O raptures untold!
And when evening comes, bringing sorrow,
Enchant our dazzled souls once more deftly,
Young loves, that disappear so swiftly!

May 1843.