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MARTA OF MILRONE
I
SHOT him where the Rio flows;
I shot him when the moon arose; And where he lies the vulture knows Along the Tinto River. In schools of eastern -culture pale
My cloistered flesh began to fail; They bore me where the deserts quail To winds from out the sun. I looked upon the land and sky,
Nor hoped to live nor feared to die; And from my hollow breast a sigh Fell o'er the burning waste. But strong I grew and tall I grew;
I drank the region's balm and dew,— It made me lithe in limb and thew,— How swift I rode and ran! And oft it was my joy to ride
Over the sand-blown ocean wide While, ever smiling at my side, Rode Marta of Milrone. 46 |
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