Chapter IV

I strolled through lonely by-paths in the park,
It was the hour, it was the mystic hour,
When 'tis no longer day, nor yet is night.
When o'er all nature hangs a solemn hush,
And everything is peaceful and serene.
And thus I strolled along and thought of her--
And then I sat upon a rustic bench
And thought of her,--and only thought of her.
And o'ver all nature hung a solemn hush;
And I was sad, and it was growing dark.
And as I sat there on the rustic bench
Close by to me I heard two voices speak.
They spoke Italian. Softly did they speak,
And there was sadness in their voices too.
One spoke of Beatrice as angel might
Have spoken of the queen of all the heavens;
The other spoke of Laura as a bard
Would speak of her who might have been the queen,--
The queen of every kingdom of the earth.
I turned my head and seated by my side
I saw the sad, illustrious Tuscan bards,
The requiem of whose unrequited love
Reverberates throughout eternity.
I did not rise and go, but kept my place.
Is not my love as great as was their love?
And is not she as beautiful, as cold,
As hopelessly indifferent and cold,
As ever Beatrice and Laura were?
And so I also spoke about my love,
Then we were silent sitting side by side.
Upon that rustic bench in Central Park,
Along a lonesome by-path in the park.
It was the hour, it was that mystic hour
When 'tis no longer day nor yet is night;
And o'er all nature hangs a solemn hush,
And everything is peaceful and serene.
Then they both went away so quietly
That I was unaware that they had gone
Until I turned my head and saw them not.