Beatrice of Swabia
I as vainly seek for her—mother, mother, where is she?
Still, to seek the unrisen sun, still the fatal skylark soars
That from Enna's vale at dawning rang me sweetly out of doors,
Rang me to the dewy grass where the sweet narcissus blows,
While the eastern heaven is blushing like the leaf of a wild rose.
Oh, the white and golden blossoms! more than my small hands could hold,
Dancing, singing, here and there plucked I of the white and gold.
Up he starts, the black magician! like a cloud upon the light—
Oh, the cruel Saracen! bears me down with him to- night,
Oh, the strange and silent twilight! Oh, the slow and solemn hours!
Oh, the larks of dewy Enna! Oh, the dear narcissus flowers!
Still through Christendom does my mother seek for me?
Shall I cry to her for ever, Mother, mother, where is she?
Still, to seek the unrisen sun, still the fatal skylark soars
That from Enna's vale at dawning rang me sweetly out of doors,
Rang me to the dewy grass where the sweet narcissus blows,
While the eastern heaven is blushing like the leaf of a wild rose.
Oh, the white and golden blossoms! more than my small hands could hold,
Dancing, singing, here and there plucked I of the white and gold.
Up he starts, the black magician! like a cloud upon the light—
Oh, the cruel Saracen! bears me down with him to- night,
Oh, the strange and silent twilight! Oh, the slow and solemn hours!
Oh, the larks of dewy Enna! Oh, the dear narcissus flowers!
Still through Christendom does my mother seek for me?
Shall I cry to her for ever, Mother, mother, where is she?
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