Not like a tranquil goddess carved of stone But evanescent, as if one should meet A pensive lamia in some wood-retreat, An immaterial fancy of one’s own.
No meditations glad or ominous Disturb her lips, or move the slender hands; Her dark eyes keep their secrets hid from us, Beyond the circle of our thoughts she stands.
The parrot on the bar, a silent spy, Regards her with a patient curious eye.
Song
The Moonflower Opens to the Moth
The moonflower opens to the moth, The mist crawls in from sea; A great white bird, a snowy owl, Slips from the alder tree.
Whiter the flowers, love, you hold, Than the white mist on the sea; Have you no brighter tropic flowers With scarlet life, for me?
Nocturne
Romeo, grand sérieux , to importune Guitar and hat in hand, beside the gate With Juliet, in the usual debate Of love, beneath a bored but courteous moon; The conversation failing, strikes some tune Banal, and out of pity for their fate Behind the wall I have some servant wait, Stab, and the lady sinks into a swoon.
Blood looks effective on the moonlit ground— The hero smiles; in my best mode oblique Rolls toward the moon a frenzied eye profound, (No need of “Love forever?”—“Love next week?”) While female readers all in tears are drowned:— “The perfect climax all true lovers seek!”