Classic Poem

As Lise however my mother was white,
— Her eyes were blue where sleeping tears gleamed,
Whenever she blushed or in fear or delight,
— Pomegranates burst into bloom it seemed.

Her hair was gold too! In wind and the light
— It covered her forehead where pale griefs dreamed.
My father was blacker than I. Yet deemed
— Sacred their union the Church and right.

Behold, strange contrast, on her white breast
— A child as golden and brown as the maize,
Ardent too as the sun in our land always.
— I, orphan, loved Lise at youth's intensest,
But her face grew pale at such words from me,
— The Black Man's son held a terror you see.