362 
THE AMERICAN-SCANDINAVIAN REVIEW 
“I beg your most humble pardon,” he said, “but Miss Erika was 
here yesterday with her sisters while you were away, and when she 
went, she left her poetry book for you and me to write something in it. 
Here it is. But I don’t know at all what to write. Could you per¬ 
haps kindly—?” And he bowed again several times. 
“We will think the matter over,” I answered in a friendly tone. 
I took the book therefore and for my own share inscribed a trans¬ 
lation of Du hist wie eine Blume , which I had made myself and which 
I always use for that purpose. I then began to search among my 
papers to see if by chance I had some old verses from my school days 
which would suit for the apothecary. Finally I came upon the fol¬ 
lowing bad poem: 
You set my thoughts in turmoil, 
I wither in longing's blight. 
In solitude you haunt me, 
I dreamed of you in the night. 
I dreamed that we walked together 
Side by side in the twilight dim, 
And through your lowered lashes 
I saw the bright tear swim. 
I kissed your cheek and your eyelids, 
I saw the tear-drop fall. 
But oh, your red, red lips, love — 
I kissed them most of all. 
One cannot always dream sweetly. 
Small rest since then have I known, 
For, sorrowful oft and weary, 
I watch through the night-hours alone. 
Alas! your cheeks so soft, love, 
I touch with glances trist. 
And those red lips, my darling, 
I never, never have kissed. 
I showed the apothecary this poem and offered to let him use it. 
He read it through attentively twice and blushed all over with delight. 
“Did you really write that yourself?” he inquired in his simplic¬ 
ity of heart. 
%/ 
“Yes, I’m sorry to admit.” 
He thanked me very warmly for the permission to use the poem, 
and when he went out of the room I imagine we both had the feeling 
that we must drop the formality of “mister” at the first opportunity. 
