Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/435

ESTELLE Ah, then, as a dozen before me had, I lay at last at her feet,

And she turned me off with a calm surprise when her triumph was all complete:

It made me wild, the stroke which smiled so pitiless out of her eyes,

Like lightning fallen, in clear noonday, from cloudless and bluest skies!

The whirlwind followed upon my brain and beat my thoughts to rack:

Who knows the many a month I lay ere memory floated back?

Even now, I tell you, I wonder whether this woman called Estelle

Is flesh and blood, or a beautiful lie, sent up from the depths of hell.

For at night she stands where the pallid moon streams into this grated cell,

And only gives me that mocking glance when I speak her name—Estelle!

With the old resistless longing often I strive to clasp her there,

But she vanishes from my open arms and hides I know not where.

And I hold that if she were human she could not fly like the wind,

But her heart would flutter against my own, in spite of her scornful mind:

Yet, oh! she is not a phantom, since devils are not so bad

As to haunt and torture a man long after their tricks have made him mad!

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