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.
“His hoof-prints crumbled down the vale,
But left behind their lava;
What should have been my woman’s mail,
Grew jellied as guava: