WHEN Nature formed Cassandra, who should move The hardest hearts with love's soft passionings, She made her of a thousand beauteous things That she had hoarded like a treasure-trove For centuries. And Love too interwove All He was dearly nesting neath His wings Of gentle, to make honey-sweet the stings Of her fair eyes, that even the Gods must love. And when from Heaven she was newly come And first I saw her, my poor heart, struck dumb, Was lost in love; and love, her minister, So poured her charm into my very veins That now I have no pleasure but my pains, No aim or knowledge but the thought of her. |