Page:Troubadour.pdf/84

80

Beautiful, but thrice wayward, wild, Capricious as a petted child, She was all chance, all change; but now A smile is on her radiant brow,— A moment and that smile is fled, Coldness and scorn are there instead.

Ended the dance, and Flung herself, like an eastern queen, Upon the cushions which were laid Amid a niche of that gay hall, Hid from the lamps; around it play'd   The softness of the moonlight fall. And there the gorgeous shapes past by But like a distant pageantry, In which you have yourself no share, For all its pride, and pomp, and care.