Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/64



H was weary of flinging the feather'd reed, He was weary of curbing his raven steed; He heard the gay din from the palace hall, But he was not in mood for the festival. There was that crimson, the last on the sky, Blushes that fade in the moon's cold eye; The sigh of the flowers arose sweet on the air, For the breath of the twilight was wandering there.