Cassandra

He gave to her, yet tenfold claim'd in return -

She hath no life but the one he for her wrought;

Proffer'd to her his wauking heart - she turn'd it down,

Riposted with a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn.

Prophetess or fond?,

Tho' her parle of truth:

"I ken to-morrow - refell me if ye can!",

Yet the kiss and breath - Apollo's bane -

Sëer of the future, not of twain,

"Sicker!", quoth Cassandra.

Still, is she lief and quaint in his eyne, a sight divine? -

A mistress fuell'd by his prest haughtiness -

If he did grant, wherefore then did he not foresee,

Belike egal as it to him might be?!

Prophetess or fond?,

Tho' her parle of truth:

"I ken to-morrow - refell me if ye can!",

Yet the kiss and breath - Apollo's bane -

Sëer of the future, not of twain,

"Sicker!", quoth Cassandra.

'Or was he an eried being,

'Or was he weening - alack nay mo;

Her naysay' raught his heart,

Her daffing was the grave of all hope -

She belied her own words,

He thought her life, save moreo'er scourge,

She held him august, yet wee;

He left her ne'er without his heart.