I found his drooping hand the warmest place
Here where my warm heart is;
I said, “Dear love, what thoughts are in thy face?
Has Death as fair a bosom, then, as this?”
—O sisters, do not start!
His cold lips answered with a fainting kiss,
And his hand struck its death chill to my heart.
II.
THE FAIR MAID AND THE SUN.
O SONS of men, that toil, and love with tears!
Know ye, O sons of men, the maid who dwells
Between the two seas at the Dardanelles?
Her face hath charmed away the change of years,
And all the world is fillèd with her spells.
No task is hers for ever, but the play
Of setting forth her beauty day by day:
There in your midst, O sons of men that toil,
She laughs the long eternity away.
The chains about her neck are many-pearled,
Rare gems are those round which her hair is curled;
She hath all flesh for captive, and for spoil,
The fruit of all the labour of the world.
She getteth up and maketh herself bare,
And letteth down the wonder of her hair
Before the sun; the heavy golden locks
Fall in the hollow of her shoulders fair.
She taketh from the lands, as she may please,
All jewels, and all corals from the seas;
She layeth them in rows upon the rocks;
Laugheth, and bringeth fairer ones than these.
Five are the goodly necklaces that deck
The place between her bosom and her neck;
She passeth many a bracelet o’er her hands;
And, seeing she is white without a fleck,
And, seeing she is fairer than the tide,
And of a beauty no man can abide—
Proudly she standeth as a goddess stands,
And mocketh at the sun and sea for pride: