Isabella And The Pot Of Basil
John White Alexander 1897.
Size. 108x51cm.
43’’x20”.

   POOR ISABELLA    

Lingered still to a broken heart,
Like the flicker of a dying flame.
For love so cruel and foul did curse,
Lorenzo’s heart for you to claim.  

For jealous hands full of greed,
Caused your brothers to accord,
And take the life of Lorenzo,
With an ardent plan and sword.

You eager hungry lovers,
Touched but once the host of love.
And in return all future lost, 
Murdered veiled in mud.

Was it ignorance in love,
Which turned from pleasure into pain?
For sorrow decayed your life,
And your tears fell like rain.

Wretched love through shame, 
Gave a vision as you lay.
To convey where rest a forest corpse, 
Right where whortle berries spray.
 
Toiled there secretly,
Into the damp forest grave.
And earth gave up your prize
Lorenzo‘s head for you to save.
 
Hidden well your prize with herb,
In an earthen garden pot.
For deep under basil scent,
Lorenzo’s head lay and rot.

Alas, those murdering, spying kin,
Stole away your basil pot.
 And death came through mourning;
 Your dying words are not forgot.

 “Oh cruelty, to steal my basil pot away from me!”

 So goes a tale of love.
Which held death instead of life.
If only love wasn’t deadly,
Isabella Could of been Lorenzo’s wife.

Written by Marian Murphy. November 20th 2005.

In response to John Keats Isabella or The Pot Of Basil.