Page:Bijou Almanacks.pdf/26



I see thee, with thy night-black hair Flung wild and loose in thy despair; Upraised are thy imploring hands To heaven, which yet thy prayer withstands; And in thy deep and flashing eye Is passion’s utter agony.

A Grecian statue dost thou seem, Wrought up in some tumultuous dream; While in the music of thy tone Is every thrill to sorrow known. Queen art thou—and still must be queen, While one heart keeps thy haunting scene.