Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/154

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And mark how carelessly those wreaths Of curl are flung behind, And mark how pensively the brow Leans on the hand reclined.

'Tis she of Crete!—another proof Of woman's weary lot; Their April doom of sun and shower,— To love, then be forgot.

Heart-sickness, feelings tortured, torn, A sky of storm above, A path of thorns,—these are love's gifts,— Ah, why must woman love!