Aoede

Her mouth is like a dewy rose That blows, but will not open quite; Like flame turned down, her long hair glows In thin, curled currents softly bright; Her breasts and throat are marble-white. Her lips will not have any kiss; They draw away, they flash a smile,-- Half bashfulness, half scorn it is, A silent ripple.... All the while She meditates some charming wile. Her feet below her drapery shine Like roses under clinging sprays, When, late in summer, lolls the vine;-- Like flag-leaves in long August days, To moods perverse her body sways. Her breath is keen and sweet as nard; Her limbs move like a stream flowing Among smooth stones. A lithe young pard Is not more quick than she to spring To guard or capture anything. She is a snare, a subtle lure,-- A lily on a whirlpool's rim. She is as dangerously pure As fire.... She revels in a dream Wherein the daintiest fancies swim. She feasts upon my pain, and turns Her pink ear up to catch my sighs, And every word I speak. She yearns To see me die.... Her great gray eyes Are deep as seas and over-wise. Ah, over-wise those strange deep eyes! They master me, they take my breath; In them a nameless mystery lies.... They burn with life that joy bringeth, They gleam through shining mists of death.