An Enchantress
Dawn not have I seen in a pair of eyes
when reached the summit I stood on of mounts,
nor dry sailors ever sipped deep a fount,
with black sackcloth that in a sound grot lies!
alas! my echoes sting the ears that bend sharp,
if perchance under this storm on a shore,
as a ship, girded thirst on glowing sands moor,
fain led by a twinkle plucked from a harp...
For shall a sole droplet poured on my bogs,
thereof gardens wide in rows thus flower,
each hand glean on your isle, tears ever gone?
or shall noon the sun's rays gallows shower;
longer a strip of a black, thick lash flog,
plumes heard thrice, loud crow sad in early hours?
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