html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }AS I my own Ludmilla
Conducted to her home,
Upon the grass we sat us,—
What’s that to any one?
But it was nothing naughty,
That there we two were at,
But only open-hearted
Did we together chat.
I squeeze her little fingers,
With faltering voice declare,
‘If but, my dear Ludmilla,
A bit more grown you were!’
She cast her little eyes down,
And at her cheeks so bright,
(So red they glow’d with blushes,)
You might a candle light.
I speak again, ‘Dear Maiden,
What is it makes thy woe’?
With that upon me streaming,
Her scalding tears did flow.
‘O weep not, golden maiden!
O what has come to thee?
For thee has ever, ever,
My heart beat loyally.’
Thereon with fond affection
Her to my heart I press,
And all intoxicated
I swim in happiness.
The calm still moon forth issued,
All wan and pale was she,
And when I kiss’d my darling,
She smil’d our bliss to see.
To meet again to-morrow
We faithful promise made,
But something rustled near us,—
O how we were afraid!
Then I at length arising
Accompanied her home,
And still I gave her kisses—
What’s that to any one?