I think Delilah had a heart As warm as any woman could: It was her pride that did the sort Of thing a woman's pride would. More slender than the high hound, Paler than grapes, and honey-eyed Was she; and she would rather wound Her heart than needle-prick her pride. Her lover could not hear her tread As soft as that she trod in air: She bound him well from heel to head And bound his holy fierce hair. (He could not see how her white breast Arched high, nor her bronze hammered curls, Nor her white chiseled thumb and wrist, Who'd lain with many simpler girls.) And when he cracked the cords apart He won her love and her disdain: Delilah had a hot heart -- But she was vain. Delilah had a vanity That hurt to hear a coin clink, And all her pride whirred angrily, And she forgot her heart. . . . I think Delilah quivered to the charms Of him whose shaggy eyes were blind To her cold grace, whose strong arms Crumbled the pillars of the wind -- Who snored contented at her thigh As if in any trull's lap, While she, complacent, proud and sly, Heard the breathless shears snap. |