AH! how well I can remember,

As the smoke curls upward slowly

From my concha, all aglow,

How I stayed one whole September

In Verona - years ago!

And the thoughts come quickly flitting,

Like old comrades from afar,

To my mind, as I am sitting

Slowly puffing a cigar.

'T is a very charming city,

Famed for churches and romance,

And the ladies, too, are pretty,

And their manners fit for France!

But 't is not of art I 'm thinking,

Nor the churches, with a sigh,

As the first faint stars are blinking

In the pale blue western sky!

I had dined at Caffe Bello,

And then wandered up and down,

Like an idle, dreamy fellow,

Through the mazes of the town;

And, just as the bells were tolling

Half the hour, - 'twixt eight and nine, -

I recall that I was strolling

By a wall o'ergrown with vine.

There I paused awhile, delighted

With the beauty of the view;

How the leaves clung like a mantle,

And the night-wind rustled through,

And the shadows near the basement

Hung a certain broad and dark -

Hush! I thought I heard a casement

Open softly - softly - Hark!

Yes - and through a window shady

For a moment peered a lady

Looking down the narrow street,

As though anxious she were waiting

At the rusty iron grating

For the sound of well-known feet.

But in vain! Ah! how I fluttered

As this woful plaint she uttered

In an accent sadly sweet!

"Must I then forever sorrow?

See, my cheeks are cold and wet.

Must I leave the world to-morrow?

Couldst thou, - couldst thou, dear, forget?

Many months I 've vainly waited,

Bright the hopes that I have spun,

And to-morrow I am fated

For the death-life of a nun!"

That was all! . . . An hour after

I was strolling once again,

In the midst of mirth and laughter

And the pleasure-seeking train.

* * * * *

Thus the thoughts come quickly flitting

Like old comrades from afar,

To my mind, as I am sitting

Slowly puffing my cigar.

And I oft recall the lady

Looking down the narrow street,

And the wall o'ergrown and shady,

And that voice so sadly sweet!

And I wonder if her lover

Came before the day was done,

Or if convent cloisters cover

All the dead hopes of a nun!