Page:Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems - Randall - 1908.pdf/86

 The world could never guess your riddle quite,
 * Nor shake your soft repose;

The same meek orbs that shone upon the night,
 * Were stars when morning rose.

Oh hypocrite! your cool, Antarctic sighs
 * Make memory an eclipse;

I feel the serpent from those poisoned eyes
 * Browsing upon my lips.

You changed. You stumbled from the better path;
 * You robed your vows on biers;

And now my lexicon of love and wrath
 * Is syllabled with tears.

You changed! Your eyes are purple-lidded beads,
 * Your hair a coil of flax,

And the cold splendor of your shape recedes
 * Into a mould of wax!

O, wormwood! that a thing of wax and wire
 * Could make me love it so;

I, with a Hecla-heart and nerve of fire,
 * Gasping amid that snow.