Page:Last poems (IA lastpoems00brow).pdf/18

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Meek, obedient in your sight, Gentle to a beck or breath Only on last Monday! Yours, Answering you like silver bells. Lightly touched! An hour matures: You can teach her nothing else. She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows.

Cross her quiet hands, and smooth Down her patient locks of silk, Cold and passive as in truth You your fingers in spilt milk Drew along a marble floor; But her lips you cannot wring Into saying a word more, 'Yes,' or 'No,' or such a thing: Though you call and beg and wreak Half your soul out in a shriek, She will lie there in default And most innocent revolt.

Ay, and if she spoke, may be    She would answer like the Son, 'What is now' twixt thee and me?' Dreadful answer! better none.