Cassandra

He gave to her, yet tenfold claim'd in return
She hath no life but the one he for her wrought
Proffer'd to her his wauking heart she turn'd it down
Ripostéd with a tell, tale lore of lies and scorn

Prophetess or fond?
Tho' her parle of truth
I can tomorrow, refell me if ye can!
Yet the kiss and breath, Apollo's bane
Sëer of the future, not of twain
Sicker! Quoth Cassandra

Still, is she lief and quaint in his eyne, a sight divine?
A mistress fuell'd by his prest haughtiness
If he did grant, wherefore then did he not foresee
Belike egal as it to him might be?

Prophetess or fond?
Tho' her parle of truth
I can tomorrow, refell me if ye can!
Yet the kiss and breath, Apollo's bane
Sëer of the future, not of twain
Sicker! Quoth Cassandra

'Or was he an æriéd being
'Or was he weening, alack nay mo
Her naysay' raught his heart
Her daffing was the grave of all hope
She beliéd her own words
He thought her life, save moreo'er scourge
She held him August, yet wee
He left her ne'er without his heart

Prophetess or fond?
Tho' her parle of truth
Can tomorrow, refell me if ye can!
Yet the kiss and breath, Apollo's bane
Sëer of the future, not of twain
Sicker! Quoth Cassandra

'Or was he an æriéd being
'Or was he weening, alack nay mo
Her naysay' raught his heart
Her daffing was the grave of all hope
She beliéd her own words
He thought her life, save moreo'er scourge
She held him August, yet wee
He left her ne'er without his heart

'Or was he an æriéd being
'Or was he weening, alack nay mo
Her naysay' rought his heart
Her daffing was the grave of all hope