He gave to her, yet tenfold claim’d in return —
She hath no life but the one he for her wrought;
Proffer’d to her his wauking heart — she turn’d it down,
Riposted with a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn.
Prophetess or fond?,
Tho’ her parle of truth:
«I ken to-morrow — refell me if ye can!»,
Yet the kiss and breath — Apollo’s bane —
Sлer of the future, not of twain,
«Sicker!», quoth Cassandra.
Still, is she lief and quaint in his eyne, a sight divine? —
A mistress fuell’d by his prest haughtiness —
If he did grant, wherefore then did he not foresee,
Belike egal as it to him might be?!
Prophetess or fond?,
Tho’ her parle of truth:
«I ken to-morrow — refell me if ye can!»,
Yet the kiss and breath — Apollo’s bane —
Sлer of the future, not of twain,
«Sicker!», quoth Cassandra.
‘Or was he an eried being,
‘Or was he weening — alack nay mo;
Her naysay’ raught his heart,
Her daffing was the grave of all hope —
She belied her own words,
He thought her life, save moreo’er scourge,
She held him august, yet wee;
He left her ne’er without his heart.