Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/144

 Your soul forgot her joys, forgot Her times of teen; Yea, this life likewise will you not Forget, Faustine?

For in the time we know not of Did fate begin Weaving the web of days that wove Your doom, Faustine.

The threads were wet with wine, and all Were smooth to spin; They wove you like a Bacchanal, The first Faustine.

And Bacchus cast your mates and you Wild grapes to glean; Your flower-like lips were dashed with dew From his, Faustine.

Your drenched loose hands were stretched to hold The vine's wet green, Long ere they coined in Roman gold Your face, Faustine.

Then after change of soaring feather And winnowing fin, You woke in weeks of feverish weather, A new Faustine.