ALEXANDRINE
I remember thy bodice, so snowy and blest,
With a violet guarding its virginal nest;
Thy sensitive forehead, thy contour serene,
And a ripple of ringlets, Alexandrine, Alexandrine!
We met in the aisle—how I think of it now!
And meekly I tendered my sanctified bough.
’Twas fondled, thy darling, deft fingers between—
Ah! the poor bough is withered, Alexandrine, Alexandrine!
And withered am I by a pitiless doom,
Like a blast from the lungs of the Demon Simoon;
In the magical spell of a haunted ravine,
Dost thou hear when I call thee, Alexandrine? Alexandrine!
On my cheek there is health, all my mind is aglow,
But my soul is the saddest Sahara, I know;
For thought hath not compassed, and eye hath not seen
The kingdom I’m banished from, Alexandrine, Alexandrine!
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