His Masterpiece

H Harry Morant Harry Morant
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#listen-container { display: inline-block; padding: 9px 15px; background: #10578E; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; border: 1px solid #1791ef; border-bottom: 1px solid #156caf; -webkit-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; -moz-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; } #listen-container:hover { background: #2f9cf1; } #listen-container a { color: #fff; } .listen-container-svg { fill: #fff; height: 20px; width: 22px; margin-right: 5px; } #text-player { margin-right: 0; display: inline-block; font-size: 16px; top: -3px; position: relative; float: none; font-family: "Roboto","sans-serif"; font-size: 12px; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 0.1em; } Listen to this Poem Your browser does not support the audio element. Never before was daughter of Eve endow'd with a face so fair, There be none of God's holy angels with a beauty half so rare As thine, nor dreamer has ever dreamed the loveliness you wear. There's a gleam in your golden tress, Lieb! a light in your melting eye! There is witchery in your smile, Lieb! and a magic in your sigh That may lure the strong ones to your shrine to worship and - to die. And I - when you whispered softly, Lleb - perchance would have worshipped, too, Had bowed to the spell of your beauty-an' it were not that I knew The Devil had wrought his masterpiece what time he fashioned you.

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