MANFRED OF BENEVENTO TO HIS SARACEN LEECH.
(1155.)
Those baths of blood that made my body whole
Of that foul leprosy, O priceless leech,
Unless some further remedy thou teach—
They somehow will not trickle off my soul:
For to whatever side I chance to roll
My restless eyes, each thing within their reach
Has changed to red: trees, faces, yonder beach,
All's grown as sanguine as a glowing coal.
See, see, my shadow's fled, and leaves me here
Alone in this red sunshine. I will play
Sweet lute-songs to recall it; it lurks near.
What, thou, my leech? How fares my leech to-day?
What if I had thee crucified ev'n ere
That blood-red pill, the sun, has rolled away?
