Classic Poem

The divine languor of souls beyond surprise
Lives in the cold curve of her lip; her eyes
Are calm as with a deep desire foregone.
Her jewelled ears drip threaded pearls upon
The fragile laces of her flaring ruff;
Her bosom sighs in crimson, and a rich stuff
Tumbles in crimson folds about her feet.

With shrivelled shanks crossed on a cushioned seat,
A cloaked and ruffled dwarf strums on a lute;
His head is small and wrinkled like a fruit
Rotten at heart and ripe before its time.
Always from his plaited ruffles croaks a rhyme
To match the tremor of the shaken strings.

She hears the lute's false music, but it brings
No word; she sees the dwarf, but far away.
Sometimes a feathered fan of Africa
Taps a dull measure on her finger tips,
And again a pungent phial meets her lips
And pauses. A sound of heels—and she has guessed
Black beard, lank cheeks, chill hands, and all the rest,
And, lowering the flask without a word,
She turns with perfect calm to greet her lord.