Classic Poem

I MET her last year, in the studio
Of Weymer, in the Rue de Charente;
She came in with cheeks all aglow
From the wild autumn winds, and bent
To my greetings with a flow.

Of light murmured words, silver sweet,
Delicate, flattering phrases,
Which my own words sprang forth to meet,
As if I believed in her praises,
Dropped with a smile at my feet.

Courtesy, high-handed, and bred
In the translucent blood of her veins:
Such a lady! who can flatter, instead
Of your flattering her for your pains,
Without a change of her cool white and red.

Saying, " I've heard of you much " —
Smiling — " and glad thus to meet " ;
While her hand's tender touch
Brushed my own, to complete
The chaste charm: call it such,

For I knew that it meant nothing more
Than the gracious refinement of art;
The exquisite odorous core
Of a flower, not its heart.
What wanted I more?

The flower itself for my share?
Well, I have it here in my palm, —
A rose that fell from her hair
Into my hand, like a charm,
Just as we parted there.

And half smiling I took it away, —
Half smiling, but was I in jest?
Well, what next? shall I say
I have worn it here on my breast
Since that red autumn day?

Only the swift short half
Of a long-drawn hour,
An arch phrase or two, and a laugh:
What is the power? —
Did she give me wine to quaff?

For, ever I'm seeing a face,
Like a face in a delicate dream
Larkspur eyes and rose lips through the lace
Of a veil glide and gleam,
Till I half lose the trace.

Then a turn of the head shows such hair!
Black hair like wet silk,
Breaking loose from a silken snare,
And a hand white as milk
Thrusting it back without care.

More than a year, you know,
And much has happened since then;
The world's ebb-tide and flow,
And a man's life with men;
But I'd let it all go

For the swift short half
Of a long-drawn hour,
An arch phrase or two, and a laugh,
And the possible power
To sit there and quaff

That fine fairy wine,
Which has kept its sweet spell,
Kept its sparkle and shine,
Down a year's surge and swell,
From that half-hour of mine.

Of mine! yes, of mine, sweet!
You've met millions of men,
And dropped a smile at their feet;
But that half-hour was mine then,
And in it I claim you, sweet.

And in it I have you and hold you,
Larkspur eyes and blush roses!
And in it I clasp you and fold you,
Where this rose reposes.
There, my passion I've told you!