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 | ||