Classic Poem

I TO be brought at her feet
 As a falcon brings a bird;
  I to be troubled or stirred,
Whenever I chance to meet.

A face that happens to grow
 The lily and rose, on a skin
 Satin-textured and thin,—
I to be brought so low!

I to care whether her eyes
 Seek another, or shine
 As I look, back to mine,
Telling their laughing love-lies!

Or if her hand touches my hand,
 Ringless, and gloveless, and fair,
 As smiling she passes me there,
Where grimly unsmiling I stand!

Last night, in dancing, she grazed
 My foot with the hem of her gown,
 And there I stood looking down
At the silk as if I were dazed.

And when, with that hand's white wonder,
 She lifted the shawl
 Which had hindered my fall,
How I inwardly cursed my blunder!

And I cursed her under my breath,
 As she smiled on me there,
 For I knew, false and fair,
She would lead men on to the death.

That lurks in a woman's art;
 Worst of all a woman like this,
 With her smile like another's kiss,
And her cold unoccupied heart.

All the time I was cursing her there
 Her hand was over my arm,
 And her face shining calm
Out of its brown chestnut hair;

Shining serenely and still,
 As we paced down the room,
 And entered the gloom
Of the garden, led by her will.

Poor fool! I remember e'en yet
 How the heliotrope scent
 Wafted up as we went,
And the smell of the crushed mignonette,

As through the dim alleys we strolled
 In the night soft and still,
 Until suddenly over the hill
Lightning flashed and low thunder rolled.

What madness then clouded my brain?
 For I kissed her fears into rest,
 As she clung to my breast
In the tumult of wind and of rain.

'T was the madness of folly and wine;
 For what did I care,
 Though I knew she was fair,
When I knew she could never be mine?

Mine! though she knelt to me here
 With that hand for a gift,
 Not a hand would I lift
To gather it ever so near.

I shall never be fooled like the rest,
 So do not class me with those
 Who would kneel for the rose
She wears on her beautiful breast;

Nor speak to me now of her power:
 I tell you 'twas wine,
 Youth's folly and wine,
That made me her slave in that hour!