Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/79

Rh

To meet the arrow; so I met My poisoned shaft of suffering. And as that bird, with drooping crest And broken wing, will seek his nest, But seek in vain; so vain I sought My pleasant home of song and thought. There was one spell upon my brain, Upon my pencil, on my strain; But one face to my colours came; My chords replied but to one name— !—all seemed vowed to thee, To passion, and to misery! I had no interest in the things That once had been like life, or light; No tale was pleasant to mine ear, No song was sweet, no picture bright.