 | The Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
140
MURDER DONE.
1.
Invisible fingers of airJust lifted the curtain's fold,
Just rippled the calm of her loosened hair,—
Beautiful, treacherous gold!
And she stood like the thought of a sculptor, carved
In marble, snowy and cold;
But her pure, sweet look was as foul a lie
As ever a woman told!
2.
A statue lay stark at my feet,Dead to the finger-tips.
A darkness hung in the lengths of her hair,
And shadowed her perjured lips.
I strangled her voice, but, O heaven!
I could not strangle one moan
That followed me out in the silent streets
As I fled through the midnight alone.
141
Am I guilty as if I were caught
With my hands at her throat? Is it murder done?—
I murdered her in my thought!
| The Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |