 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
“Io Athena! Pallas hath no gift
To rival thine, my loveliest! thy words,
Like pungent herbs before the banquet, give
A charm, a flavour, an Apician zest
To the deferred delight that dawns in tears.
Coy maidenhood! the sage in all his lore
Must learn the science of awaking bliss
From thee, supremely skilled in gibe and taunt,
Which are harsh preludes to long lingering bliss.
But the wine blushes, Love! to meet thy lip—
Lo! how it kisses the crowned cup and smiles!
Thou wouldst not leave me—(though thy free discourse
Argues but ill)—for yon dim vaults, greened o'er
By the dead dampness, where cold serpents trail
And cockatrices brood, and livid asps
Madden with unspent poison! thou hast seen
A portion of the terrors—'t is thy choice
To dwell with love and luxury and joy,
Or have a farther knowledge—come, love! come!
The unfurrowed features of a priest may charm
Thy dainty spirit well as dead men's smiles
Sardonic, and the gleam of breathless flesh!
Are crimson pillows of the cygnet down
Less fitting thy desire than jagged rocks
Beetling o'er naptha fires and festering floods?
Or yon tapestried couch, thou wilt desert,
Less to thy wish than wanderings through the gloom
Of haunted charnel labyrinths beyond?
Come, thou art wiser! Passion is my god
First worshipped—next, Revenge!—my arms are chilled
By cold embraces of the goddess—come!”
To rival thine, my loveliest! thy words,
Like pungent herbs before the banquet, give
A charm, a flavour, an Apician zest
To the deferred delight that dawns in tears.
Coy maidenhood! the sage in all his lore
Must learn the science of awaking bliss
From thee, supremely skilled in gibe and taunt,
Which are harsh preludes to long lingering bliss.
But the wine blushes, Love! to meet thy lip—
Lo! how it kisses the crowned cup and smiles!
Thou wouldst not leave me—(though thy free discourse
Argues but ill)—for yon dim vaults, greened o'er
By the dead dampness, where cold serpents trail
And cockatrices brood, and livid asps
Madden with unspent poison! thou hast seen
A portion of the terrors—'t is thy choice
To dwell with love and luxury and joy,
Or have a farther knowledge—come, love! come!
The unfurrowed features of a priest may charm
Thy dainty spirit well as dead men's smiles
Sardonic, and the gleam of breathless flesh!
Are crimson pillows of the cygnet down
Less fitting thy desire than jagged rocks
Beetling o'er naptha fires and festering floods?
Or yon tapestried couch, thou wilt desert,
Less to thy wish than wanderings through the gloom
Of haunted charnel labyrinths beyond?
Come, thou art wiser! Passion is my god
First worshipped—next, Revenge!—my arms are chilled
By cold embraces of the goddess—come!”
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |