STONE APPLES
Not in the garb of the olden days,
But tricked with a tinselry of toys—
And she frowned as she met my eager gaze,
And she smiled o’er the foppish joys.
And she, high and haughtily, brushed me by,
To harvest the spoils of her fevered bliss—
To drink in the honeyed laugh and lie,
The honeyed serpent’s hiss.
Yes! the boreal wind cut keen and bleak,
And the heavens had frosty eyes once more,
For the apples I plucked from the Venus-cheek
Were petrified to the core!
And I sighed to my heart: “My love is rash,
Since these are the false and blasting fruits;
I thrust it back ’mid the diamond’s flash,
’Mid the masquerade of flutes”!
[ 87 ]
