Does he love her?—Yes, to madness,
Fiery, fierce, and wild;
Touch'd, too, with a gentle sadness;
For his soul is mild,
Tender as his own sad song.
And that young wan cheek is wasted
With the strife within:
Well he knows his course has hasted
Through delicious sin,
Borne tumultuously along.
Never have the stars above
Chronicled such utter love.
Well the red robe folded round her
Suits her stately mien;
And the ruby chain has bound her
Of some Indian queen;—
Pale her cheek is, like a pearl.
Heavily the dusky masses
Of her night-black hair,
Which the raven's wing surpasses,
Bind her forehead fair;
Odours float from every curl.
He would die, so he might wear
One soft tress of that long hair.
Clear her deep black eyes are shining,
Large, and strangely bright;
Somewhat of the bid repining,
Gives unquiet light
To their wild but troubled glow.
Dark-fringed lids an eastern languor
O'er their depths have shed;
But the curved lip knoweth anger,
'Tis so fiercely red,—
Passion crimsons in its glow.
Tidings from that face depart
Of the death within her heart.
Does she love the boy who, kneeling,
Brings to her his youth,
With its passionate, deep feeling,
With its hope, its truth?
No; his hour has pass'd away!
Scarcely does she seek to smother
Change and scornful pride;
She is thinking of another,
With him at her side;—
He has had his day!
Love has darken'd into hate,
And her falsehood is his fate.
Even now, her hand extending,
Grasps the fated cup;
For her red lip o'er it bending,
He will drink it up,—
