Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/21

Rh

Her brow was ghastly; and her lip Was parched, as fever were its breath. There was a shade upon her dark, Large, floating eyes, as if each spark Of minstrel ecstasy was fled, Yet leaving them no tears to shed; Fixed in their hopelessness of care, And reckless in their great despair. She sat beneath a cypress tree, A little fountain ran beside, And, in the distance, one dark rock Threw its long shadow o’er the tide; And to the west, where the nightfall Was darkening day’s gemm’d coronal, Its white shafts crimsoning in the sky, Arose the sun-god’s sanctuary.