SECOND SONNET

  Last night I fain would sleep to dream of thee,
  But jealous sleep fled my eyelids,
  I sought the balcony and looked towards heaven,
  Always my glance flies upward when I think of thee.

  Strange sight! whose meaning love alone can tell,
  The sky had lost its sapphire hue,
  The stars, dulled diamonds in their golden mount,
  Twinkled no more nor shed their warmth.

  The moon, washed of her silver radiance lily-white,
  Hung mourning over the gloomy plain, for thou hast robbed
  The heavens of all that made them bright.

  The snowy sparkle of the moon is on thy lovely brow,
  Heaven’s azure centres in thine eyes,
  Thy lashes fall like starry rays.

What more gracious way of saying to a young girl that she fills your life?  Tell me what you think of this love, which expends itself in lavishing the treasures alike of the earth and of the soul.  Only within the last ten days have I grasped the meaning of that Spanish gallantry, so famous in old days.

Ah me! dear, what is going on now at La Crampade?  How often do I take a stroll there, inspecting the growth of our crops!  Have you no news to give of our mulberry trees, our last winter’s plantations?  Does everything prosper as you wish?  And while the buds are opening on our shrubs—­I will not venture to speak of the bedding-out plants—­have they also blossomed in the bosom of the wife?  Does Louis continue his policy of madrigals?  Do you enter into each other’s thoughts?  I wonder whether your little runlet of wedding peace is better than the raging torrent of my love!  Has my sweet lady professor taken offence?  I cannot believe it; and if it were so, I should send Felipe off at once, post-haste, to fling himself at her knees and bring back to me my pardon or her head.  Sweet love, my life here is a splendid success, and I want to know how it fares with life in Provence.  We have just increased our family by the addition of a Spaniard with the complexion of a Havana cigar, and your congratulations still tarry.

Seriously, my sweet Renee, I am anxious.  I am afraid lest you should be eating your heart out in silence, for fear of casting a gloom over my sunshine.  Write to me at once, naughty child! and tell me your life in its every minutest detail; tell me whether you still hold back, whether your “independence” still stands erect, or has fallen on its knees, or is sitting down comfortably, which would indeed be serious.  Can you suppose that the incidents of your married life are without interest for me?  I muse at times over all that you have said to me.  Often when, at the Opera, I seem absorbed in watching the pirouetting dancers, I am saying to myself, “It is half-past nine, perhaps she is in bed.  What is she about?  Is she happy?  Is she alone with her independence? or has her independence gone the way of other dead and castoff independences?”