QUEEN BEAUTY
I
Queen Beauty far beyond the battle,
Amid those hills divine,
Far from the muskets' weary rattle,
In groves of odorous pine
Or soft green fields where russet cattle
With the deep grass combine,
Reposes:—and her tresses deep
Are scattered o'er her limbs asleep.
II
There Beauty rests,—and will surrender
If thou wilt seek her there.
Then she will clothe thee with gold splendour
Of outpoured fragrant hair,
And cleave to thee with lips most tender,
And all the summer air
Shall fold thee round about with dim
Robe swathing every weary limb.
III
Is this not better than the shaking
Of all the cornfields red
Beneath the tramp of cannon waking
Wild echoes with wheeled tread?
Is this not fairer than the breaking
Of dawn o'er countless dead?
Is her hair softer than the hue
Of dead men's locks at Waterloo?
IV
Lo! this for each soul waits,—the pleasure
Of love when battle ends:
Love's limitless immortal treasure
That Beauty's hand extends,
And soft delight that knows no measure
But deepens on and blends
With the sea-surges whence she came,—
A woman-heart, and goddess-flame.
December, 1881.
