A promenade in twilight late
With tears which secret sufferers love—
But now in her effulgence pale
A substitute for lamps we hail!
XXIII
Obedient she had ever been
And modest, cheerful as the morn,
As a poetic life serene,
Sweet as the kiss of lovers sworn.
Her eyes were of cerulean blue,
Her locks were of a golden hue,
Her movements, voice and figure slight,
All about Olga—to a light
Romance of love I pray refer,
You'll find her portrait there, I vouch;