 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
315
THE TEMPTRESS.
I.
Unto the awful Temptress at my side,
From whose embrace comes madness at the end,
I said, “I will not yield, but will defend
My weary soul till body and soul divide.”
“Art thou so much in love with grief?” she cried,
“That thou wilt have no other love or friend?”
I answered her, “In guile thou dost transcend
All other foes who have my strength defied.”
From whose embrace comes madness at the end,
I said, “I will not yield, but will defend
My weary soul till body and soul divide.”
“Art thou so much in love with grief?” she cried,
“That thou wilt have no other love or friend?”
I answered her, “In guile thou dost transcend
All other foes who have my strength defied.”
“Once thou didst tarry in my halls,” quoth she,
“And to fair chambers were thy footsteps led.”
“Blood-red and hot thy kisses were,” I said,
“Thralled was I, then, who now, at least, am free;
But if again those floors my feet should tread,
Then thou and Hell should have me utterly.”
“And to fair chambers were thy footsteps led.”
“Blood-red and hot thy kisses were,” I said,
“Thralled was I, then, who now, at least, am free;
But if again those floors my feet should tread,
Then thou and Hell should have me utterly.”
II.
Because she stands so fatally close to me;
Because I breathe in anguish with each breath,
Who may not face the awful eyes of Death,
Nor 'scape the pitiless eyes of Memory;
Because my soul is deaf, nor may it see;
Because within my ear the Temptress saith:
“Am I not fair, crowned with my fragrant wreath?
Have I not pleasant gifts to give to thee?”
Because I breathe in anguish with each breath,
Who may not face the awful eyes of Death,
Nor 'scape the pitiless eyes of Memory;
Because my soul is deaf, nor may it see;
Because within my ear the Temptress saith:
“Am I not fair, crowned with my fragrant wreath?
Have I not pleasant gifts to give to thee?”
Because I know the sweet mouth only lies,
Yet surely know that she is very fair, —
I venture not to look into her eyes,
As in a lighter mood I might have done,
Nor touch her hand, nor idle with her hair,
Seeing of this could come no end but one.
Yet surely know that she is very fair, —
I venture not to look into her eyes,
As in a lighter mood I might have done,
Nor touch her hand, nor idle with her hair,
Seeing of this could come no end but one.
316
III.
“Look at me once again,” she pleaded yet;
“Come thou with me, and be no more alone;
Why should thy heart perpetually make moan?”
She took my hand. Then, being so beset,
I spoke no word, but turned, and our eyes met.
My blood leaped in me, as a flame wind-blown.
“Call me again,” she said, “thy very own,
And teach thy heart its sorrow to forget.”
“Come thou with me, and be no more alone;
Why should thy heart perpetually make moan?”
She took my hand. Then, being so beset,
I spoke no word, but turned, and our eyes met.
My blood leaped in me, as a flame wind-blown.
“Call me again,” she said, “thy very own,
And teach thy heart its sorrow to forget.”
I gazed, and gazing saw that she was fair,
And full of grace; but while I looked, behold
Her beauty like a robe fell from her there,
And left her standing, wrinkled, lean, and old;
“Go hence,” I cried, “base mother of sins untold,
And leave my soul its undefiled despair.”
And full of grace; but while I looked, behold
Her beauty like a robe fell from her there,
And left her standing, wrinkled, lean, and old;
“Go hence,” I cried, “base mother of sins untold,
And leave my soul its undefiled despair.”
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |