Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/142

 You have the face that suits a woman For her soul's screen— The sort of beauty that's called human In hell, Faustine.

You could do all things but be good Or chaste of mien; And that you would not if you could, We know, Faustine.

Even he who cast seven devils out Of Magdalene Could hardly do as much, I doubt, For you, Faustine.

Did Satan make you to spite God? Or did God mean To scourge with scorpions for a rod Our sins, Faustine?

I know what queen at first you were, As though I had seen Red gold and black imperious hair Twice crown Faustine.

As if your fed sarcophagus Spared flesh and skin, You come back face to face with us, The same Faustine.