I loved you:
men have writ and women have said
they loved,
but as the Pythoness stands by the altar,
intense and may not move,
till the fumes pass over;
and may not falter or break,
till the priest has caught the words
that mar or make
a deme or a ravaged town;
so I, though my knees tremble,
my heart break,
must note the rumbling,
heed only the shuddering
down in the fissure beneath the rock
of the temple floor;
must wait and watch
and may not turn nor move,
nor break from my trance to speak
so slight, so sweet,
so simple a word as love.
3
WHAT had you done
had you been true,
I can not think,
I may not know.
What could we do
were I not wise,
what play invent,
what joy devise?
What could we do
if you were great?
(Yet were you lost,
who were there then,
to circumvent
the tricks of men?)
What can we do,
for curious lies
have filled your heart,
and in my eyes
sorrow has writ
that I am wise.