CIRCE

 
          HER mouth a rosebud of delight,
            Low-laughing 'mid the languid curls,
          Whose kissing cadence seems to cite
          The rhythmic melody of Night.
            Her hair a saraband where whirls
          A wanton witch, whose perfumes smite
          The shuddering air; a summer night
            Where summer lightning darts and curls.

          Her soul a Parian marble shrine,
            Centred in lily-cups that fold
            Their carven petals, smooth and cold,
          Far o'er a lake of frozen wine ---
            Yet deep within whose inmost fold
            Sleepeth a snake: the crystal brine
          Of endless sorrow seals his shrine;
            Wiser than Sin is he, so old!
                                          ETHEL ARCHER.

{52}

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