Poems Lyrical and Dramatic By Evelyn Douglas [i.e. J. E. Barlas] |
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THE LOVED OF APOLLO.
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 | Poems Lyrical and Dramatic |  |
143
THE LOVED OF APOLLO.
Before the pine log's blaze she sits
Within her oaken-panelled hall:
Each living ember redly flits
O'er blazoned roof and carven wall.
Each marble square beneath the grate
Gives back a sanguine tongue of fire,
The diamonds on her breast dilate,
Red glows her ruby-cinctured tiar.
Within her oaken-panelled hall:
Each living ember redly flits
O'er blazoned roof and carven wall.
Each marble square beneath the grate
Gives back a sanguine tongue of fire,
The diamonds on her breast dilate,
Red glows her ruby-cinctured tiar.
“Men hate a woman passion-proof
Like all that proves their wisdom vain:
Then let them curse my father's roof,
And swear his child has suffered stain,
Whereby she fears her maiden snows
Might blackly 'neath the sunshine thaw,
And so lets fade her maiden rose
To screen what worm hath wrought the flaw.
Like all that proves their wisdom vain:
Then let them curse my father's roof,
And swear his child has suffered stain,
Whereby she fears her maiden snows
Might blackly 'neath the sunshine thaw,
And so lets fade her maiden rose
To screen what worm hath wrought the flaw.
144
“God knows, 'tis not their scorn I fear,
'Tis I their shape and stature scorn,
Who have not seen my beauty's peer
In any man of woman born.
They call me callous, wrought of stone—
Sweet Heavens, I would that he were not,
But rosy flesh and human bone,
And life-blood coursing wild and hot.
'Tis I their shape and stature scorn,
Who have not seen my beauty's peer
In any man of woman born.
They call me callous, wrought of stone—
Sweet Heavens, I would that he were not,
But rosy flesh and human bone,
And life-blood coursing wild and hot.
“Lo! there he stands within his niche,
A god in every line and fold,
The stone locks clustering close and rich
Upon his head's divinest mould.
White-armed he wings his wrath from far,
Poised forward on one sandalled sole:
His spirit swifter than a star
Outspeeds the arrow to its goal.
A god in every line and fold,
The stone locks clustering close and rich
Upon his head's divinest mould.
White-armed he wings his wrath from far,
Poised forward on one sandalled sole:
His spirit swifter than a star
Outspeeds the arrow to its goal.
“Most strange that it should bind me so,
This marble mass of soulless limb,
That more and more I seem to grow
Incarnate piece and part of him;
For all my youth and childhood through
'Twas ever thus as now: by day
His eyes my restless steps pursue;
At eve I clasp his feet to pray.
This marble mass of soulless limb,
That more and more I seem to grow
Incarnate piece and part of him;
For all my youth and childhood through
'Twas ever thus as now: by day
145
At eve I clasp his feet to pray.
“I marvel not that pagan seers
Should hold this archer-youth a god,
Since though our Lady squints and leers,
Men kiss the ground her feet have trod;
And now, though mute his holy place;
Though dead their creed while ours be new,
The worship of the wiser race
When all is done may yet be true.
Should hold this archer-youth a god,
Since though our Lady squints and leers,
Men kiss the ground her feet have trod;
And now, though mute his holy place;
Though dead their creed while ours be new,
The worship of the wiser race
When all is done may yet be true.
“I dream! He clasps me in his arms,
And stabs me with the lips of love:
To rosy flesh the marble warms,
His curls like sunset gleam above.
Sweet life—he breathes upon my cheek:
Sweet love—he fills my soul with power:
Sweet sleep—his lips begin to speak:
Sweet death—he kills me like a flower.”
And stabs me with the lips of love:
To rosy flesh the marble warms,
His curls like sunset gleam above.
Sweet life—he breathes upon my cheek:
Sweet love—he fills my soul with power:
Sweet sleep—his lips begin to speak:
Sweet death—he kills me like a flower.”
That night a prince came o'er the snow:
To him the king his child had sworn;
The priest awaits with book below:
Her maidens haste the bride to warn.
The door swings open with a gust,
And lo, an empty breadth of floor!
The statue crumbled into dust,
The lady gone for evermore.
To him the king his child had sworn;
The priest awaits with book below:
Her maidens haste the bride to warn.
146
And lo, an empty breadth of floor!
The statue crumbled into dust,
The lady gone for evermore.
| Poems Lyrical and Dramatic | |