Classic Poem

The artist has called you " Salome, "
And given you the salver and the sword,
But I cannot think you are the daughter of Herodias.
Your beauty is complacent,
It is drowsy and fully revealed.
You have slept a great many afternoons
In the open fields of Spain,
And have wakened laughing,
To lift moist tendrils of black hair
From your neck.
The lazy sun is in your blood,
In the winning assurance of your eyes,
And your pleasant mouth.
I know that you are a dancer,
For your ankles are a trifle heavy,
And you would rise slowly to the music;
But I cannot think you would fancy, as a reward,
The head of John the Baptist,
Or that you would refuse
The white peacocks of the King
In their cypress grove.
You are not the new moon of April,
Nor a slender flame whitely burning,
Nor the young leaves of Spring,
Nor the wind upon the waters;
You are just a peasant girl,
Very lovely and content,
Musing, while you pose,
Of a festival,
Or a bright ribbon,
Or a lover,
Who is not a prophet.