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THE FLIGHT.
I'd sooner fold an icy corpse dead of some foul disease:
Wed him? I will not wed him, let them spurn me from the doors,
And I will wander till I die about the barren moors.
Wed him? I will not wed him, let them spurn me from the doors,
And I will wander till I die about the barren moors.
XV.
The dear, mad bride who stabb'd her bridegroom on her bridal night—
If mad, then I am mad, but sane, if she were in the right.
My father's madness makes me mad—but words are only words!
I am not mad, not yet, not quite—There! listen how the birds
The dear, mad bride who stabb'd her bridegroom on her bridal night—
If mad, then I am mad, but sane, if she were in the right.
My father's madness makes me mad—but words are only words!
I am not mad, not yet, not quite—There! listen how the birds
