Classic Poem

We rode through the shouting town;
She clung to the edge of the crowd
Like a crescent moon slipped down
The stormy black of a cloud.

Scarce missing my horse's feet
By a turn of the hand and head;
And O, but her face was sweet,
And O, but her mouth was red!

I stooped from the saddle swift
As a swooping hawk through the brine
Pierces to strike and lift,
And I touched her lips with mine.

For a second's fleeting space
I captured the flame of her eyes,
The quick, hot blush of her face,
Her wondering, mute surprise.

But a look, a touch, and then—
Spurred on to the thundering
Of the thousand cries of men
Who hailed their anointed king.

Was she maiden, was she wife,
Was she wanton, or bold or shy?
What matter, we plucked from life
An ecstasy—she and I.

In the moment's little space
Or for well or ill was it done—
The girl of the market place
And the crownéd king were one.

In purple the young Queen goes—
Like a flower of snow, her face;
Ah me, for the wild red rose
I kissed in the market place!