The Sibyl

A maid who mindful of her playful time Steps to her summer, bearing childhood on To woman’s beauty, heedless of her prime: The early day but not the pastime gone: She is the Sibyl, uttering a doom Out of her spotless bloom.

She is the Sibyl; seek not, then, her voice;— A laugh, a song, a sorrow, but thy share, With woes at hand for many who rejoice That she shall utter; that shall many hear; That warn all hearts who seek of her their fates, Her love but one awaits.

She is the Sibyl; days that distant lie Bend to the promise that her word shall give; Already hath she eyes that prophesy, For of her beauty shall all beauty live: Unknown to her, in her slow opening bloom, She turns the leaves of doom.