Report books

At every looming figure that blots the vega bright,
She starts and peers with changing face, and strains her eager sight;
For every burly form she sees upon the distant street
Is to her the Bencerraje whom her bosom longs to greet.
And many a distant object that rose upon her view
Filled her whole soul with rapture, as her eager eyes it drew;
But when it nearer came, she turned away, in half despair,
Her vision had deceived her, Bencerraje was not there.
"My own, my Bencerraje, if but lately you descried
That I was angry in my heart, and stubborn in my pride,
Oh, let my eyes win pardon, for they with tears were wet.
Why wilt thou not forgive me, why wilt thou not forget?
And I repented of that mood, and gave myself the blame,
And thought, perhaps it was my fault that, at the jousting game,
There was no face among the knights so filled with care as thine,
So sad and so dejected, yes, I thought the blame was mine!
And yet I was, if thou with thought impartial wilt reflect,
Not without cause incensed with thee, for all thy strange neglect.


Pages:
130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154