Page:Maurine and Other Poems (1910).pdf/43

 And held communion with the angels. So I fed my strength and courage through the days. What time the harvest moon rose full and clear And cast its ling’ring radiance on the earth, We made a feast; and called from far and near, Our friends, who came to share the scene of mirth. Fair forms and faces flitted to and fro; But none more sweet than Helen’s. Robed in white, She floated like a vision through the dance. So frailly fragile and so phantom fair, She seemed like some stray spirit of the air, And was pursued by many an anxious glance That looked to see her fading from the sight Like figures that a dreamer sees at night. And noble men and gallants graced the scene: Yet none more noble or more grand of mien Than Vivian—broad of chest and shoulder, tall And finely formed, as any Grecian god Whose high-arched foot on Mount Olympus trod. His clear-cut face was beardless; and, like those Same Grecian statues, when in calm repose, Was it in hue and feature. Framed in hair Dark and abundant; lighted by large eyes That could be cold as steel in winter air, Or warm and sunny as Italian skies.

Weary of mirth and music, and the sound Of tripping feet, I sought a moment’s rest Within the lib’ry, where a group I found Of guests, discussing with apparent zest Some theme of interest—Vivian, near the while, Leaning and listening with his slow, odd smile. “Now, Miss La Pelle, we will appeal to you,” Cried young Guy Semple, as I entered. “We Have been discussing right before his face, All unrebuked by him, as you may see, A poem lately published by our friend: And we are quite divided. I contend The poem is a libel and untrue. I hold the fickle women are but few, Compared with those who are like yon fair moon That, ever faithful, rises in her place Whether she’s greeted by the flowers of June Or cold and dreary stretches of white space.”

“Oh!” cried another, “Mr. Dangerfield,