Beatrice-Aurore
by Harriet Löwenhjelm
In Stockholm town at Kornhamnstorg
in Hallbeck’s secondhand bookstore
I bought an ancient dream-book once
composed in days of yore.
Then I lay dreaming all last night
of Beatrice-Aurore.
She was a one time love of mine
whom I lost long before.
She stood so close, she took my hand,
she whispered: “Come to me.”
At once I understood and knew –
my only love was she.
We wandered down a linden walk,
I wept and I was sad.
The autumn leaves were wet and sere
and yet my heart was glad.
We walked and held each other’s hand.
Like children’s were our words.
And then we reached a quaint old mill
with many singing birds.
I said: “Will you be mine alone,
say, Beatrice-Aurore?”
“Then catch me if you can,” she cried
and left me at the door.
And I ran in and searched and searched
in every nook around,
and cried – but Beatrice-Aurore
was nowhere to be found.
I woke up crying bitterly
and in my heart a sting.
And in my dream-book then I searched
but there was not a thing.
