Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/196

 To those fair lips, as poppies red, what kisses have I given;

How often round that swan-like maid play'd like the breeze of heaven.

In love's own madness—danc'd with gladness—smil'd but 'twas to sigh:

Nights all-sleepless—chas'd the error—sad and lone was I.

At morning ere the matin bell—and ere the matin prayer

I rose to hear the choral songs of minstrels of the air.

The forests shaded—I invaded—and my hapless eye

Ah! false maiden—wretched lover—saw—O agony!

'Twas in the valley's deepest dell she sat—and not alone;

I heard the vow—I saw the kiss—she smil'd—he said 'Mine own'