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Carlotta Poor, lone Carlotta, Mexico's mad Queen, Babbling of him, amid thy vacant halls, Whose ears have long been heedless of thy calls; Sad monument of pomp that once hath been, Thy staring eyes mark ever the same scene Of levelled muskets, and a corpse which falls, Dabbled in blood, beneath the city walls-- Though twenty years have rolled their tides between. Not of this world thy vengeance! They have passed, Traitor and victim, to the shadow-land. Not of this world thy joy; but, when at last Reason returns in Paradise, its hand Shall join the shattered links of thought again, Save those that form this interval of pain. Arthur Weir's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1217 |
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