I

Please, Señor Cura, write a line for me—
?I know for whom; and so you needn't tell.
You know, because of that dark night when he
?And I encountered you together.—Well!
Excuse us but—I did not find it strange;
?It was the night,—a chance for everyone.
Hand me the pen and paper. Thanks. Arrange
?Yourself while I begin—“ My dear Ramón ”—
My dear?—You have it down in black and white?—
?But not if you object!—Yes, yes, I vow!—
?“ How sad I am ”—Does that not put it right?—
?It does. “ How sad I am without you now! ”
“There is an anguish gnawing in my heart”—
?How do you know the sorrow that I feel?—
To an old man a maiden's secrets part
?And show as though a crystal did reveal!
“What is this world without you?—Vale of tears!
?And at your side?—An earthly Paradise!”
Be sure the writing there so clear appears
?'Twill reach, good señor Cura, to his eyes!
“The kiss I gave you when you went away”—
?But come, who then has told you all you know?—
When one arrives, or leaves or makes his stay,
?Together—no offence—'tis always so.
“And if your love delays you from my sight
?You do not know the sorrow it will cost!”
Sorrow?—no more?—No, Señor Cura, write,
?With pain my very life will soon be lost!
Your life—and know you not you mock at heaven?—
?Yes, yes, alas, Señor,—this life of mine!—
I shall not write it.—Man be unforgiven,—
?If I could only write, myself and sign!—
2

O Señor Cura, Señor Cura,—vainly
?Will all your efforts to oblige me prove,
If in your writing you will not state plainly
?All that I feel and all the power of love!
For God's sake, write him that my very spirit
?Can hardly in my mortal body keep,
That every day new sorrows I inherit,
?That I can nothing do but sigh and weep!—
That my poor lips, whereon his breath found roses
?I nowadays can hardly open more;
That they forget to smile, so pain opposes
?The joy my heart was cherishing of yore;
That my poor eyes, that once he found so tender,
?Are clouded over with such weight of pain,
That as they find no other eyes to render
?Their loving glance they always close again;
That of the many griefs with which I languish,
?His absence is the very worst of all—
That in my ears there sounds the ceaseless anguish
?Of echoes that his voice in vain recall.
And such my state because of him, with blighting
?My soul is falling into grief's decline;
My God!—the things my pen would be inditing,
?If I could only write, myself, and sign!
Epilogue

That's fine!—Leave it to love!—Now the addressing,
?“ To Don Ramón ”—Ah, me, how such a call
Shows me the uselessness of my professing
?To know my Greek, and Latin, after all!