I READ to her, one summer day, A little mythologic story About the maid who laughed at love, And ran a race for love and glory. I closed the book. She raised her eyes And hushed the song she had been humming; Glancing across the shady lawn, I saw my wealthy rival coming. "These ancient tales," I gravely said, "With meaning wise are often laden; And Atalanta well may stand As type of many a modern maiden. "Minus, of course, the classic scandal, But with no less of nimble grace, How many dainty slippered feet Are running now that self-same race! "And when Hippomenes casts down His golden apples, is there ever A chance for Love to reach the goal?" With saucy smile, she answered, "Never!" I rose to go -- she took my hand (O Fate, you ne'er that clasp can sever!). And, "Stay," she said, with sudden blush, -- "You @3know@1 that I meant -- '@3hardly@1 ever.'" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ILLUSIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO JOHN BROWN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 1. SUNRISE IN THE TROPICS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON FREE FANTASIA ON JAPANESE THEMES by AMY LOWELL |