 | Songs of A Worker |  |
102
LIVING MARBLE.
When her large, fair, reluctant eyelids fell,
And dreams o'erthrew her blond head mutinous,
That lollingly surrendered to the spell
Of sleep's warm death, whose tomb is odorous
And made of recent roses; then unchid
I gazed more rapturously than I may tell
On that vain-hearted queen with whom I dwell,
The wayward Venus who for days hath hid
Her peerless, priceless beauty, and forbid,
With impious shames and child-like airs perverse,
My great, fond soul from worshipping the sight
That gives religion to my day and night—
Her shape sublime that should be none of hers.
And dreams o'erthrew her blond head mutinous,
That lollingly surrendered to the spell
Of sleep's warm death, whose tomb is odorous
And made of recent roses; then unchid
I gazed more rapturously than I may tell
On that vain-hearted queen with whom I dwell,
The wayward Venus who for days hath hid
Her peerless, priceless beauty, and forbid,
With impious shames and child-like airs perverse,
My great, fond soul from worshipping the sight
That gives religion to my day and night—
Her shape sublime that should be none of hers.
103
The wonder of her nakedness, unspoiled
By fear or feigning, showed each passionate limb
In reckless grace that failed not nor recoiled;
And all the sweet, rebellious body, slim,
Exuberant, lay abandoned to the whim
And miracle of unabashed repose.
I joyed to see her glorious side left bare,
Each snow-born flow'ret of her breast displayed,
One white hand vaguely touching one red rose,
One white arm gleaming through thick golden hair.
I gazed; then broke the marble I had made,
And yearned, restraining heart and holding breath,
That sleep indeed were endless, even as death.
By fear or feigning, showed each passionate limb
In reckless grace that failed not nor recoiled;
And all the sweet, rebellious body, slim,
Exuberant, lay abandoned to the whim
And miracle of unabashed repose.
I joyed to see her glorious side left bare,
Each snow-born flow'ret of her breast displayed,
One white hand vaguely touching one red rose,
One white arm gleaming through thick golden hair.
I gazed; then broke the marble I had made,
And yearned, restraining heart and holding breath,
That sleep indeed were endless, even as death.
| Songs of A Worker | |