HER mouth is like a dewy rose
That blows but will not open quite;
Like flame turned down, her long hair flows
In thin, curled currents softly bright.
Her breast and throat are marble-white.
Her lips will not have any kiss;
They draw away, they flash a smile;
Half bashfulness, half scorn it is,—
A silent ripple. All the while
She meditates some charming wile.
Her feet below her drapery shine
Like roses under clinging sprays,
When, late in summer, lolls the vine.
Like flag-leaves in long August days,
To moods perverse her body sways.
Her breath is keen and sweet as nard.
Her limbs move like a stream flowing
Among smooth stones. A lithe young pard
Is not more quick than she to spring
To guard or capture anything.
She is a snare, a subtle lure,
A lily on a whirlpool’s rim.
She is as dangerously pure
As fire. . . . She revels in a dream
Wherein the daintiest fancies swim.
She feasts upon my pain, and turns
Her pink ear up to catch my sighs
And every word I speak. She yearns
To see me die. . . . Her great gray eyes
Are deep as seas, and over-wise.
Ah, over-wise, those strange, deep eyes,
They master me, they take my breath;
In them a nameless mystery lies. . . .
They burn with life that joy bringeth,
They gleam through shining mists of death.
Maurice Thompson.