POEMS
Sing you this song and these unhallowed lays,
Like the brown bird of grief insatiate
Crying for sorrow of its dreary days;
Crying for Itys, Itys, in the vale—
The nightingale! The nightingale!
CASSANDRA
Yet I would that to me they had given
The fate of that singer so clear,
Fleet wings to fly up unto heaven,
Away from all mourning and fear;
For ruin and slaughter await me—the cleaving with sword and the spear.
CHORUS
Whence come these crowding fancies on thy brain,
Sent by some god it may be, yet for naught?
Why dost thou sing with evil-tongued refrain,
Moulding thy terrors to this hideous strain
With shrill, sad cries, as if by death distraught?
Why dost thou tread that path of prophecy,
Where, upon either hand,
Landmarks for ever stand
With horrid legend for all men to see?
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