Vicissitudes
She sleeps, her fair cheek pillowed on some joy,
Some satisfaction pure, without alloy.
What shall awake her? whispered love so low
That the sweet words seem melting, soft and slow?
Nay! but the blood-red torch, the clangorous strife
Of armed men round her — Thus it is with life.
Some satisfaction pure, without alloy.
What shall awake her? whispered love so low
That the sweet words seem melting, soft and slow?
Nay! but the blood-red torch, the clangorous strife
Of armed men round her — Thus it is with life.
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