 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
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 | |