ISABELLE AND I.
125
The tall and shattered arches Their flickering shadows cast,Like bent and hoary spectres, Low murmuring of the past.
And Isabelle toils o'er the Alps. Through fields of ice and snow,To see the lofty glaciers Flash in the sun's red glow.I feel no cold, and yet on high Their shining spires I see.Why should I envy Isabelle? Why should she pity me?
Why should I envy Isabelle When thus so easily,Upon a tropic flower's perfume I float across the sea?
