The foam on the rein ye may see it plain, but nothing else is white.
Young Lisaro, as on they go, his bonnet doffeth he,
Between its folds a sprig it holds of a dark and glossy tree;
That sprig of bay, were it away, right heavy heart had he--
Fair Zayda to her Zegri gave that token privily.
And ever as they rode, he looked upon his lady's boon.
"God knows," quoth he, "what fate may be--I may be slaughtered soon;
Thou still art mine, though scarce the sign of hope that bloomed whilere,
But in my grave I yet shall have my Zayda's token dear."
Young Lisaro was musing so, when onward on the path,