Recount their loves again.
Now more restless grows Leora,
Fair Leora, gentle maid,
With sweet eyes so dark and fervent,
And each tress of nightly shade.
Heaves her bosom fast and wildly
Like a billow snowed with foam,
For there’s something boding tells her
That Almagro will not come.
Clouds are passing swiftly o’er her,