Quay lại trang chủ | Luyện nghe Bài Hát

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