THE COURTESAN

Night passes; now the thin and argent light
Drifts from the East, like smoke by breezes blown
Forth from a valley where camp-fires are bright,
Over the flame-illumined hills of dawn.
Night passes; and at last am I alone,
And shivering beside my window here,
Where every morning with the curtains drawn
I crouch and watch the last star disappear.

Stars were my birthright; I was born to live
Beneath their glow; at dusk my soul awakes,
And stirred and made a little mad I give
Myself each time, expectant and anew,
To one who has not come. ... No other slakes
The restlessness of my desire for him;
Never did maiden wait for knight to woo
With lonelier heart or eyes more often dim.

Dream-time is passing, and the sweet stars rove
Ever a little higher in the sky,
While through the fields of night I seek for love.
My soul and body flame before a face. ...
But ere the dawn I hear the old, old cry
That first in childhood urged my lips to kiss,
And urged my feet into the market-place
Where all men come, and where, perchance, he is.

Now I am one with all who sinned my sin, —
With vultures, drunkards, thieves, and girls in tears,
With great dead queens, and lovers who have been
Stayed for all time in tales and poetry. ...
But till the Scythe mow down my weed-like years
I watch for one across the barren sands, —
Keeping a shrine beside a sterile sea,
Tending a sacred flame with impious hands.