Page:Satanella (1932).pdf/35



Surely it is not my doing

That for love Spring is selected,

Evening star by love is chosen,

That the rose is lovers' flower,

Nightingale their sacred song-bird,

And the poets' song so gentle,

Lullaby is of their gladness

And the dirge of lovers' blisses.

Two old walls of gloomy ruins

As two sisters, self-embracing

Forward lean their aged arches.

Ivy grows from every crevice,

On the battlement, a hawthorne

And a rug of mossy verdure.

Grass between the stones has settled:

Downward hang dark blades so tender,

Playthings of the blowing breezes

As a woman's flowing tresses.

And within these saddened ruins

—formerly a famous cloister—

Gypsies have their camp erected.