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HORSE AND RIDER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: My feet I in the stirrup throw
Last Line: ... Perhaps.... Who knows?


MY feet I in the stirrup throw;
Now my proud courier swiftly go
Far from this spot.
Your master's maddened with despair:
Hence must we fly; I know not where,
It matters not.

Truly she thinks me safely ta'en
In the close net of her disdain.
Girl fair of face,
Let's flee that Siren's melting eyes;
'Twixt her and me half heaven's skies
I vow to place.

Thus every day we meanly start,
With heavy yet forgiving heart,
The maid to see.
The right-hand road with caution shun;
We know too well that it doth run
Where dwelleth she.

How does she prize her beauty's store,
All those false gods which I adore:
Her snowy skin,
Her eyes reflecting heaven's own blue,
Her voice ... No! 'tis a kitten's mew,
Nor praise shall win.

My soul its pride regains at last;
Upon the tyrant boldly cast
My curse shall rest.
My lips, what lies you used to say,
When still you told her day by day
I love you best.

O the capricious chit, who ne'er
Will love return, yet will not bear
Not to be loved!
Happy the hearts that friendship scorn,
And all the ills through pity borne
Have never proved.

Haste, haste! Ah! this the hour must be,
When every eve she waits for me,
Cold, yet how sweet.
And I fly from her far away,
No tears I shed; a merry lay
I dare repeat.

What meets my sight? The verdant lawn,
The lane, the house, upon me dawn.
'Tis past dispute.
Cursed be the rider and his horse,
Who took, compelled by custom's force,
The well-known route.

Fly, let us fly: press fast the pace;
But no. You see her pretty face,
The lattice shows.
I must just say Good-bye. Next day
We'll start afresh upon our way
... Perhaps.... Who knows?





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