40
THE IMPROVISATRICE.
Upon her temple, each dark vein
Swelled in its agony of pain.
Chill, heavy damps were on her brow;
Her arms were stretched at length, though now
Their clasp was on the empty air:
A funeral pall—her long black hair
Fell over her; herself the tomb
Of her own youth, and breath, and bloom.
Alas! that man should ever win
So sweet a shrine to shame and sin
As woman’s heart!—and deeper woe
For her fond weakness, not to know
That yielding all but breaks the chain
That never reunites again!
