“A note
All out of tune in this world’s instrument.”
—AMY LEVY.
I KNOW not in what fashion she was made,
Nor what her voice was, when she used to speak,
Nor if the silken lashes threw a shade
On wan or rosy cheek.
I picture her with sorrowful vague eyes
Illumed with such strange gleams of...
It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,
And what that maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell,
When by there rode a valiant knight, from the town of Oviedo—
Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo.
“O maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt’st thou by the spring?
Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?
Why gazest thou...
Not with a Club, the Heart is broken
Nor with a Stone —
A Whip so small you could not see it
I've known
To lash the Magic Creature
Till it fell,
Yet that Whip's Name
Too noble then to tell.
Magnanimous as Bird
By Boy descried —
Singing unto the...
Unto a broken heart
No other one may go
Without the high prerogative
Itself hath suffered too.
