“Your Lady, Serf?”
“She’s in the bower.”
“In sooth I should have sought her there!”
For oft we passed the twilight hour
In its delicious air.
I rushed with lightning steps—Oh, God!
Why flashed not then thy blasting flame—
That it might wither from the sod
The one who madly called Thy name?
My poniard grasped, left not its sheath—