 | Lays of France |  |
Was there no little deadly snake
Curled on the threshold, for her sake,
To save him with its fiery fang?
Nay, but he entered; and this sad
Too lovely Sarrazine, all clad
In clinging robes, with voice that sang
The piteous music of lone thought
Most luringly, is unto him,
As 'twere some fatal serpent, slim
And gracious that hath softly caught
His soul twining about it close,
Sinking it into ways of woes
Past saving.
Curled on the threshold, for her sake,
To save him with its fiery fang?
Nay, but he entered; and this sad
Too lovely Sarrazine, all clad
In clinging robes, with voice that sang
The piteous music of lone thought
Most luringly, is unto him,
As 'twere some fatal serpent, slim
And gracious that hath softly caught
115
Sinking it into ways of woes
Past saving.
| Lays of France | |