Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/228

 The chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,

Hence! Hence! I pass unto a life more barren, more austere.

More barren—ay, those arms will never lean

Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul

In sweet reluctance through the tangled green;

Some other head must wear that aureole,

For I am Hers who loves not any man

Whose white and stainless bosom bears the sign Gorgonian.

Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page,

And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair,

With net and spear and hunting equipage

Let young Adonis to his tryst repair,

But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell

Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel.

Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy

Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud

Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy

And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed

In wonder at her feet, not for the sake

Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take. 214