Classic Poem

Upon the ground,
Made tender around her with moss and with flowers,
A mound half-circling her,
Swelling to meet
The soft-falling robes and the delicate feet,
One hand restwise,
Earthward eyes,
Hair loose on the wind;
Now, a wistful smile
As the soft wind sighs, and flutters, and sings.
And a pulse that flutters her
With the rush and the fall,
And small fingers that carelessly
Pluck the thick-growing flowers,
With a quick gesture twitch,
Throwing away a few.
A gasp, a surprise,
Half end of the knee. oes she rise
You, you, pretty slave,
Have you drained the last drain
Of your gold cup at last,
Knowing your ease pain?
The tender moss and the flowers,
The long love-sweet hours,
Mound round you pressed,
Woman, earth-caressed,
Eyes downward cast,
At last, O! at last,
Slave with wings hidden,
With divinity bidden,
To sleep — nay, drown
In its own blood, self-shed,
Inspired call unanswered,
So to fill the perfect part of womanhood