She turns her with sick heart From the crowd with the burning eyes. She flees to the woods apart Where the old world's shadow lies. And there in the leafy gloom, With her white face hid in her hair, She moans the unpitied doom Of the flesh that's born too fair. Softly with amorous tread From the dark doth a Satyr creep And standing close to her head Watches the wanton weep. Like the mask of a thousand years The lust in him drops away, And big immortal tears Make a grave for it in the clay. And gently on bended knees He worships the wanton there, Pouring old heathen litanies Into her drooping hair. And the heart of the old world then Flings forth its ancient balm, And the burning eyes of men Can work her no more harm. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A DEATH SCENE by EMILY JANE BRONTE A WOMAN'S SHORTCOMINGS by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 14 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING MERSA by KEITH CASTELLAINE DOUGLAS ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING, WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES HESPERUS THE BRINGER by SAPPHO THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: APRIL by EDMUND SPENSER AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS; SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |