The Saint Who Fell Mug

Once on a time, as poets sing High tales with fancy laden, Born of a very noble king There lived a wondrous maiden. An only child, her kinsfolk boon, So fair, imagination faints; As though amidst the stars the moon, Or Mary amidst the saints. From 'neath the castle's dark retreat, Her silent way she wended Each evening to the window-seat Where Lucifer attended. And secretly, with never fail, She watched his double race, Where vessels drew their pathless trail Across the ocean's face. And as intent she drank his light, Desire was quickly there; While he who saw her every night Soon fell in love with her. And sitting thus with rested head, Her elbows on the sill, Her heart by youthful fancy led Did with deep longing fill. While he, a brilliant shining spark, Glowed always yet more clear Towards the castle tall and dark Where she would soon appear. Until one night with shower of rays He slips into her room, As though a strange and silver haze Did round about her loom. And when at last the child to rest Upon her sofa lies, He lays her arms across her breast And closes her soft eyes. While where his ray on mirror lands And is upon her couch red rifted, It falls upon her throat and hands And on her face uplifted. A smile is on her lips it seems; He in the mirror trembles, For smooth his ray glides midst her dreams And round her soul assembles. And while she is in slumber gone She murmurs through her sighs: Never mind! M.E