Theatre Of Tragedy - Cassandra

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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
Ripost’d with a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn
Prophetess or fond?
Tho' her parle of truth:
«I ken to-morrow — 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 ken to-morrow — 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 éri'd being
'Or was he weening — alack nay mo;
Her naysay' raught his heart
Her daffing was the grave of all hope —
She beli’d 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