The Draught of Life.
142
With thought swathed like a bandage o'er his eyes,
Saw, as with drooping wing all silently
The Evening stole on velvet-sandalled feet
Into his court—a slender figure come
As soft as Evening's self. As reeds that lie
Along the marshes, after hurtling winds
Have fiercely smit them, broken not—but bent,
And set no longer on their slender stems
To sway in poise so exquisitely true,
Their very weakness seems the grace of strength—
So was the lissom figure. As a bud
Unsheathed by human fingers coarse and rude,
Forestalling Nature's delicate designs,
For ever blighting by their carnal touch
A fragile purity—so was the face,
And o'er the shadowy floor on trembling knees,
With little hands outstretched, and darkened eyes
She searched each separate vein that threaded through
The polished marble for some little nook,
Some hollow, haply at a pillar's foot
Wherein a pool, or, e'en a single drop
Of water might have lodged—in vain, in vain!
Saw, as with drooping wing all silently
The Evening stole on velvet-sandalled feet
Into his court—a slender figure come
As soft as Evening's self. As reeds that lie
Along the marshes, after hurtling winds
Have fiercely smit them, broken not—but bent,
And set no longer on their slender stems
To sway in poise so exquisitely true,
Their very weakness seems the grace of strength—
So was the lissom figure. As a bud
Unsheathed by human fingers coarse and rude,
Forestalling Nature's delicate designs,
For ever blighting by their carnal touch
A fragile purity—so was the face,
And o'er the shadowy floor on trembling knees,
With little hands outstretched, and darkened eyes
She searched each separate vein that threaded through
The polished marble for some little nook,
Some hollow, haply at a pillar's foot
Wherein a pool, or, e'en a single drop
Of water might have lodged—in vain, in vain!
