The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fate

Already quivers through me.

'When I beheld his red-roan steed,

I knew what aim impelled it;

And that dim scarf of silver brede,

I guessed for whom he held it;

I recked not, while he flaunted by,

Of Love's relentless vi'lence,

Yet o'er me crashed the summer sky,

In thunders of blue silence.