 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
257
PANDORA
That's my Pandora: look you, good as gold;No evil in her. Yet, as once of old,
Zeus formed her namesake, she, in body and soul,
Was made for man's allurement. He who stole
Fire from high Heaven, and so brought on Earth
A scourge of evils, was of not more worth
Than she, the woman, of whom we are told.
Now my Pandora's of the selfsame mold:
A sweet disturbance, filling every hour
With personality, that's kin to power;
But still concealing her immortal dower
Of love, like her, whom Epimetheus
Gave heart and soul to.—But I like her thus:
A woman through and through, with all the fuss
And fervor and nice curiosity
In all that we name life, whate'er it be,
Though at the last it may end evilly.
But could it end so? when, within her mind,
Like Hope shut in the casket, you will find,
Mid doubts, she keeps her faith in humankind.
Now looking at her there you'd never know
The fire of the faith which burns below—
That's my Pandora!—her chaste bosom's snow.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |