🎵 Luyện Nghe Bài Hát: Theatre of Tragedy - Cassandra

 Cassandra
 
 He gave to her, yet tenfold  in return -
 She hath no life but the one he  her wrought;
 Proffer'd to her his wauking  - she turn'd it down,
 Riposted with a  lore of lies and scorn.
 
 Prophetess  fond?,
 Tho' her parle  truth:
 "I  to-morrow - refell me if ye can!",
 Yet the  and breath - Apollo's bane -
 Sëer  the future, not of twain,
 "Sicker!",  Cassandra.
 
 Still, is she lief and quaint in his eyne,  sight divine? -
 A mistress fuell'd by  prest haughtiness -
 If he  grant, wherefore then did he not foresee,
  egal as it to him might be?!
 
 Prophetess or 
 Tho' her parle  truth:
 "I ken to-morrow -  me if ye can!",
 Yet the kiss and breath -  bane -
 Sëer of the future, not of 
 "Sicker!", quoth 
 
 'Or was  an eried being,
 'Or was he weening -  nay mo;
 Her naysay' raught  heart,
 Her daffing  the grave of all hope -
 She belied  own words,
  thought her life, save moreo'er scourge,
 She held  august, yet wee;
 He left her ne'er without  heart.