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-bend of the knee. Does 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 It was said. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE STONE by HAYDEN CARRUTH SHADOW-CASTING by JAMES GALVIN THE BLACK RUNNER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON AN EXPLANATION by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ON TAGORE by MARIANNE MOORE GOOD-BYE DOROTHY GAYLE: OVER THE MACKINAC by KAREN SWENSON |