He gave to her, yet tenfold claimed in return
She hath no life but the one he for her wrought
Proffered to her his walking heart, she turned it down
Reposted with a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn

Prophetess or fond?,
Though her parle of truth
"I can tomorrow, refell me if ye can!"
Yet the kiss and breath, Apollo's bane
Sëer of the future, not of twain
"Sicker!", quoth Cassandra

'Or was he an eried being
'Or was he weening, alack nay mo
Her naysay' rought his heart
Her daffing was the grave of all hope
She belied her own words
He thought her life, save moreo'er scourge
She held him august, yet wee
He left her ne'er without his heart

Though her parle of truth:
"I can tomorrow, refell me if ye can!"
Yet the kiss and breath, Apollo's bane
Sëer of the future, not of twain
"Sicker!", quoth Cassandra

'Or was he an eried being
'Or was he weening, alack nay mo
Her naysay' rought his heart
Her daffing was the grave of all hope

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