He gave to her, yet tenfold claimed in return
She hath no life but the one he for her wrought
Proffered to her his wauking heart, she turned it down
Riposted with a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn
Prophetess or fond?
Though her parle of truth
I ken tomorrow, refell me if ye can
Yet the kiss and breath, Apollo's bane
Seer of the future, not of twain
"Sicker," quoth Cassandra
Still, is she lief and quaint in his eyne, a sight divine?
A mistress fuelled 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?
Though her parle of truth
I ken tomorrow, refell me if ye can
Yet the kiss and breath, Apollo's bane
Seer of the future, not of twain
"Sicker," quoth Cassandra
'Or was he an aeried being
'Or was he weening, alack nay mo
Her naysay' raught his heart
Her daffing was the grave of all hope
She belied her own words
He thought her life, save moreover scourge
She held him august, yet wee
He left her ne'er without his heart
Prophetess or fond?
Though her parle of truth
I ken tomorrow, refell me if ye can
Yet the kiss and breath, Apollo's bane
Seer of the future, not of twain
"Sicker," quoth Cassandra
Prophetess or fond?
Though her parle of truth
I ken tomorrow, refell me if ye can
Yet the kiss and breath, Apollo's bane
Seer of the future, not of twain
"Sicker," quoth Cassandra
'Or was he an aeried being
'Or was he weening, alack nay mo
Her naysay' raught his heart
Her daffing was the grave of all hope
She belied her own words
He thought her life, save moreover scourge
She held him august, yet wee
He left her ne'er without his heart
'Or was he an aeried being
'Or was he weening, alack nay mo
Her naysay' raught his heart
Her daffing was the grave of all hope