Classic Poem

AS TO A FIGURE LEFT SOLITARY ON A UNIQUE FRAGMENT OF GREEK BASSO-RILIEVO

A crescent brow — a quiver thrown
Behind the shoulder. A huntress, own.
It needs be Artemis. But, nay,
It breathes too much of Eve's sweet way,
And Artemis is high, austere,
Chill as her morn, a goddess mere.

She bends, and with one backward hand
Adjusts her buskin light,
The sidelong face upturned — how arch!
Sure, somebody meets her sight.

But never virgin on another
Virgin, or approaching brother
Turned a look like that, I wis.
Profane, if meant for Artemis!
Why, could one but piece out the stone —
Complete restore its primal state,
Some handsome fellow would be shown,
Some Lover she would fascinate
By that arch look. —
Nay — can it be?
Again methinks 't is Artemis.
Rogue of a Greek! and is it she?
Show'st thou the goddess, human yet —
The austere Artemis a coquette?
If so in sooth, some latter age
In faith's decay begot thine art —
Such impudence of sweet persiflage!