Amina.
263
Kneeling with claspèd hands, to the late Sun
That flares his crimson torch across her eyelids."
But on the morrow, as a hunter hears
The quarry home—some white-limbed tender doe—
He came down from the mountain through the valleys,
Amina's light form hanging o'er his shoulder.
For she was dead for sorrow, mad Amina!
That flares his crimson torch across her eyelids."
But on the morrow, as a hunter hears
The quarry home—some white-limbed tender doe—
He came down from the mountain through the valleys,
Amina's light form hanging o'er his shoulder.
For she was dead for sorrow, mad Amina!
