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Yolanda of Cyprus

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Год написания книги
2017
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And her torn hair, forbade me with a voice.

And you, whose heart is shaken

As in a tomb a taper's flame, would know

I speak with love.

Camarin. Unswerving love.

Amaury. Then, by

Christ, and the world that craves His blood, I think

She, if she would, or you, could point to me,

Or you, Vittia Pisani,

The reason of this sudden piteous death

Hard on the haunted flight before my father,

Whose lips refuse.

Camarin. She knows no shred of it.

Amaury. You lie to say it.

Camarin. Then will, still – if there

Is need.

Amaury. Because you love her?

Yolanda. Peace, peace, peace.

Amaury. A hollow word for what had never being.

Yolanda. Look on her face and see.

Amaury (at bier). Upon her face!

Where not oblivion the void of death

Has hid away, or can, the agony

Of her last terror – but it trembles still.

I tell you, no. Grief was enough, but now

Through it has risen mystery that chokes

As a miasma from Iscariot's tomb.

And till this pall of doubt be rent away

No earth shall fall and quicken with her dust!

But I will search her face … till it reveals.

Camarin. He raves.

Amaury. Iscariot! yes!

Yolanda. Again, peace, peace!

Amaury. That you may palter!

Yolanda (gently). That she may not grieve.

[Goes again to bier.

For – if her soul is near – it now is wrung.

Near! would it were to hear me and impart

Its yearning and regret to us who live,

Its dim unhappiness and hollow want.

Yes, mother, were you now about us, vain,

Invisible and without any voice

To tell us of you!

Were you and now could hear through what of cold

Or silence wrap you, oh, so humanly,

And seeming but a veil —

Then would you hear me say —

[Suddenly aghast.

Ah, God!

Amaury. Yolanda!
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