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THE CHOICE.
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THE CHOICE.
The Spanish lady sat alone within her evening bower,
And, sooth to say, her thoughts were such as suited well the hour;
For, shining on the myrtle-leaves until they shone again,
The moonlight fell amid the boughs like light and glittering rain.
The ground was strewn with cactus flowers, the fragile and the fair—
Fit emblems of our early hopes—so perishing they are;
The jasmine made a starry roof, like some Arabian hall;
And sweet there floated on the air a distant fountain's fall.
She leant her head upon her hand: "I know not which to choose—
Alas! whichever choice I make, the other I must lose.
