Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/438

VARIOUS POEMS From my reckless mother, now in her grave,

And the father who grudged me even his name,—

Why, I should have station and tender care,

Should ruin men in the high-bred way,

Passionless, smiling at their despair,

And marrying where my vantage lay.

As it is, I must have love and dress,

Jewelled trinkets, and costly food,

For I was born for plenteousness,

Music and flowers, and all things good.

To that same father I owe some thanks,

Seeing, at least, that blood will tell,

And keep me ever above the ranks

Of those who wallow where they fell.

True, there are weary, weary days

In the great hotel where I make my lair,

Where I meet the men with their brutal praise,

Or answer the women, stare for stare.

'T is an even fight, and I'll carry it through,—

Pit them against me, great and small:

I grant no quarter, nor would I sue

For grace to the softest of them all.

I cannot remember half the men

Whose sin has tangled them in my toils,—

All are alike before me then,

Part of my easily conquered spoils:

Tall or short, and dark or fair,

Rich or famous, haughty or fond,

There are few, I find, who will not forswear

The lover's oath and the wedding bond.

Fools! what is it that drives them on

With their perjured lips on poison fed;

Vain of themselves, and cruel as stone,

How should they be so cheaply led? 408