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.