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Marta of Milrone |
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A flood of horned heads before,
The trampled thunder, smoke and roar, Of full four thousand hoofs, or more — A cloud, a sea, a storm! Oh, wonderful the desert gleamed,
As, man and maid, we spoke and dreamed Of love in life, till white wastes seemed Like plains of paradise. Her eyes with Love's great magic shone.
"Be mine, O Marta of Milrone,— Your hand, your heart be all my own! " Her lips made sweet response. " I love you, yes; for you are he
Who from the East should come to me — And I have waited long! " Oh, we Were happy as the sun. There came upon a hopeless quest,
With hell and hatred in his breast, A stranger, who his love confessed To Marta long in vain. To me she spoke: " Chosen mate,
His eyes are terrible with fate,— I fear his love, I fear his hate,— I fear some looming ill! " 47 |
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