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 -
sëer 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 -
sëer 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.