 | Fantasy and Passion |  |
110
THE STATUETTE.
You see that marble shape, so gay of mien,
My lithe Terpsichore with the tambourine?
My lithe Terpsichore with the tambourine?
Last year in Paris, as you may have read,
A certain duke was murdered in his bed.
A certain duke was murdered in his bed.
Deepest of secrets! No one knows to-day
Whose hand it was that smote him where he lay!
Whose hand it was that smote him where he lay!
The heir sold all his grandeurs, piece by piece:
I bought this statuette out of pure caprice.
I bought this statuette out of pure caprice.
For just above the poor duke's bed, you see,
Hung bracketed this same Terpsichore.
Hung bracketed this same Terpsichore.
And now I fancy that with each pure charm
Of dimpled cheek, blown hair, or curving arm,
Of dimpled cheek, blown hair, or curving arm,
Lies blent a shadowy fear, a faint distress,
That vaguely mars the sculptured loveliness.
That vaguely mars the sculptured loveliness.
And I, remembering that on one so gay
So grim a secret wearily must weigh,
So grim a secret wearily must weigh,
Have sometimes dreamed that when the room is mute,
And clothed upon with darkness absolute,
And clothed upon with darkness absolute,
Those bloodless marble lips will strangely stir,
And they that hunt the unpunished murderer,
And they that hunt the unpunished murderer,
Might hear, if through this dead-black room they came,
The low mysterious naming of a name! ...
The low mysterious naming of a name! ...
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