Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/98

 And, with the breath of many a fanning plume, That wonder of her hair that was like wine— Of mingled fires and purples that consume, Moved all its mystery of threads most fine—

Moved like some threaded instrument that thrills, Played on with unseen kisses in the air Weaving a music from it, working spells We feel and know not of—so moved her hair:

And under saffron canopies all bright With clash of lights, e'en to the amber prow, Crept like enchantments subtle passing sight, Fragrance and siren music soft and slow.

Amid the thousand viands of the feast, And Nile fruits piled in panniers, where they vied With palm-tree dates and melons of the East, She waited for Marc Antony and sighed.

—Where tarries he?—What gift doth he invent For costly greeting?—How with look or smile, Out of love treasures not already spent Prepares he now her fondness to beguile?