 | Songs of A Worker |  |
124
A VENUS.
Fallen from ancient Athens to the daysWhen sculpture hides her forms beneath a shroud,
I mingle sometimes with the bourgeois crowd
Of rich church-going serious folk, to gaze
On each demure-faced Venus who obeys
The crabbed daily rule of some purse-proud
Merchant or lawyer, graceless and bald-browed,
Cheating abroad for what at home he pays.
And marking well her beauty, which he bought
With cunning eye; I marvel is this she
Whom Paris knew? Does she not chafe at all?
And ofttimes sorely expiate in thought
Her desecrated godhead, secretly
Standing lone, white, upon some pedestal?
| Songs of A Worker | |