Classic Poem

I promised no reproach, Elise,
Though all thy flimsy vows were fickle;
My slender-necked anemones
Have perished by thy crafty sickle:
Well! let them go, though soiled and stolen,
And headless, too, as Anna Boleyn —
Ay, let them go, though debonair
With hazel, poppy-perfumed hair.
I'll not reproach, Elise, but I
Will make my malediction lie
Upon thee, feathery as a sigh;
Till from abysmal peaks of woe
My curse shall shroud thee with its snow;
Softly upon that forehead fair,
Crisping the poppy-perfumed hair,
Its winnowing ice-birds lilt and go, —
But no reproach , Elise, oh no —
Only the rustle of the snow!
'Twill skim thy throat not rude or redly —
Its dapper feet,
Slippered with sleet,
Shall into thy bonnet and bosom retreat
With a stinging like snow,
Which is woe —
Only my curse, my curse you know!
Not rude or redly —
Nothing but snow!
As shy — as smooth — as cool — as slow —
As deadly.