passed through the large hall which had
just been swept and put in order, where the half-drawn green damask
curtains made a soft twilight, she stopped sadly before the piano. It
was like a dream, to think who had sat there but a few hours before. She
looked long and thoughtfully at the keys which _he_ had touched last;
then she softly closed the lid and took away the key, in jealous care
lest some other hand should open it too soon. As she went away, she
happened to return to its place a book of songs; an old leaf fell out,
the copy of a Bohemian folk-song, which Franziska, and she too, had sung
long ago. She took it up, not without emotion, for in her present mood
the most natural occurrence might easily seem an oracle. And the
simple verses, as she read them through again, brought the hot tears to
her eyes:

"A pine-tree stands in a forest--who knows where?
A rose-tree in some garden fair doth grow;
Remember they are waiting there, my soul,
Till o'er thy grave they bend to whisper and to blow.

"Far in the pasture two black colts are feeding.
Toward home they canter when the master calls;
They shall go slowly with thee to thy grave,
Perchance ere from their hoofs the gleaming iron falls."

* * * * *

[Illustration: ANNETTE VON DROSTE-HUeLSHOFF]

ANNETTE ELIZABETH VON DROSTE-HUeLSHOFF

PENTECOST[34] (1839)

The day was still, the sun's bright glare
Fell sheer upon the Temple's beauteous wall
Withered by tropic heat, the air
Let, like a bird, its listless pinions fall.
Behold a group, young men and gray,
And women, kneeling; silence holds them all;
They mutely pray!

Where is the faithful Comforter
Whom, parting, Thou didst promise to Thine own?
They trust Thy word which cannot err,
But sad and full of fear the time has grown.
The hour draws nigh; for forty days
And forty wakeful nights toward Thee we've thrown
Our weeping gaze.

Where is He? Hour on hour doth steal,
And minute after minute swells the doubt.
Where doth He bide? And though a seal
Be on the mouth, the soul must yet speak out.
Hot winds blow, in the sandy lake
The panting tiger moans and rolls about,
Parched is the snake.

But hark! a murmur rises now,
Swelling and swelling like a storm's advance,
Yet standing grass-blades do not bow,
And the still palm-tree listens in a trance.
Why seem these men to quake with fear