Classic Poem

For J. M.

S ALOME dances on the grass;
At last her hour is come to pass.

Now, rainbow-hued, her seven veils
Are flung about her, seven gales
That flutter to her body's grace
Or mist-like rise before her face;
Before her deep mysterious eyes
Soft clouds of veil, concealing, rise —
Then like a shower of leaves, wind-blown,
Or a flock of little birds, half-grown,
Uncertainly drift down to lie
Just where her feet, anon, dance by. ...

She lifts her arms above her head,
Her lips part — though their mirth is dead;
Her slow swift sudden movements seem
Caught in the languor of a dream;
Her eyes half close as if their gaze
Found through the Tetrarch's clamorous praise
The cool unwilling lips of John
Descending close, her mouth upon.

Her breath sings faintly through the cry
Of music, that with moan and sigh
And reeling joy runs through the night
And lifts its voice against the light
Of moon and stars that gleam above
The girl who sways with hate and love,
And throw a holy glory there —
Upon the blood-stained terrace where
Salome dances on the grass,
Knowing her hour is come to pass.