 | [Poems by Moody in] William Vaughn Moody : A Study by David Dodds Henry |  |
240
THE PICTURE
DRYAD—LAUGH in the eyes—just see
The dewy lid with the sunlight snared
In the mesh, and the primal woodland glee
In the supple head-poise, firm and free,
And the gladsome curve where the bosom's bared!
The dewy lid with the sunlight snared
In the mesh, and the primal woodland glee
In the supple head-poise, firm and free,
And the gladsome curve where the bosom's bared!
Strange that it always serves them so;
People dowered a thousand ways—
Minds diverse as the shuttle-glow
Of the sea, where the coral breaks its flow—
Just the same—like a witch's gaze!
People dowered a thousand ways—
Minds diverse as the shuttle-glow
Of the sea, where the coral breaks its flow—
Just the same—like a witch's gaze!
Witch for him (so the story goes)
Him the deep-eyed seer of dreams,
Painter of gloried bits and gleams
Of the over-world—ah! she held him close,
And wound him round with her chains of rose
Him the deep-eyed seer of dreams,
Painter of gloried bits and gleams
Of the over-world—ah! she held him close,
And wound him round with her chains of rose
Till she had him fast; bound hand and knee:
His eye would follow till sight grew dim
The silken shimmer of gown swept free
By her lithe round limb—and she let him be
And fed her heart on her hate for him.
His eye would follow till sight grew dim
The silken shimmer of gown swept free
By her lithe round limb—and she let him be
And fed her heart on her hate for him.
What time had he, while his brain was a-throng
With dewy dreams, flush fancyings,
Sly satyr-shapes in woodsy rings,
Wan breasts a-glimmer in seas of song,
To think of days had been dead so long?
With dewy dreams, flush fancyings,
Sly satyr-shapes in woodsy rings,
Wan breasts a-glimmer in seas of song,
To think of days had been dead so long?
Besides 'twas scarce but a paltry hour
In a heap of years—nor the thing so much;
To crush a gnat that has spoiled your bower
Of summer languor; it needs but a touch,
Then back to your book, or lute, or flower.
In a heap of years—nor the thing so much;
To crush a gnat that has spoiled your bower
Of summer languor; it needs but a touch,
Then back to your book, or lute, or flower.
Ah! but the crushed gnat chanced to be
What you call a man: then 'twere time to doubt:
To be sure but a thing o' the fields, a clout,
Only worth in this, he could breathe, and see,
Even love, perhaps, between you and me.
What you call a man: then 'twere time to doubt:
To be sure but a thing o' the fields, a clout,
Only worth in this, he could breathe, and see,
Even love, perhaps, between you and me.
What, the face looks not so blithe, you think?
Something stirs in a gloom apart,
Flings arms out just to let them sink,
Gropes and moans for the dry lips' drink,
Gasps, and clutches the bursting heart?
Something stirs in a gloom apart,
Flings arms out just to let them sink,
Gropes and moans for the dry lips' drink,
Gasps, and clutches the bursting heart?
241
Yes, for listen! the thing's accursed;
'Tis a bit of hell in a gilded frame.
What right had she—though her hate was flame,
Though it gnawed at her heart's mid-core, and versed
The whole round sky with her dead love's name
'Tis a bit of hell in a gilded frame.
What right had she—though her hate was flame,
Though it gnawed at her heart's mid-core, and versed
The whole round sky with her dead love's name
From zenith sun to horizon line—
What right had she to step smiling, twine
Her sunny hair through the warp of his life?
Were simple death not a vengeance fine?
What right had she to forge Love for a knife?
What right had she to step smiling, twine
Her sunny hair through the warp of his life?
Were simple death not a vengeance fine?
What right had she to forge Love for a knife?
Could I solve the riddle? What, I, the crone
With the shrivelled lip and the faded eye?
Could I tell how the song-burst under the sky
Broke and fluttered and sank to a moan?
Perhaps I might—were the face not I.
With the shrivelled lip and the faded eye?
Could I tell how the song-burst under the sky
Broke and fluttered and sank to a moan?
Perhaps I might—were the face not I.
| [Poems by Moody in] William Vaughn Moody : A Study by David Dodds Henry | |