Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/471

HEBE Was there no more? Yes, that year life began:

All life before a dream, false joys, light woes,—

All after-life compressed within the span

Of that one year,—the year I met with Rose!

1883.

HEBE

, what a beauty! Half-shut eyes,—

Hide all buff, and without a break

To the tail's brown tuft that mostly lies,

So quiet one thinks her scarce awake;

But pass too near, one step too free,

You find her slumber a devil's truce:

Up comes that paw,—all plush, you see,—

Out four claws, fit for Satan's use.

'Ware! Just a sleeve's breadth closer then,

And your last appearance on any stage!

Loll, if you like, by Daniel's Den,

But clear and away from Hebe's cage:—

That's Hebe! listen to that purr,

Rumbling as from the ground below:

Strange, when the ring begins to stir,

The fleshings always vex her so.

You think 't were a rougher task by far

To tame her mate with the sooty mane?

A splendid bronze for a showman's car,

And listless enough for bit and rein.

But Hebe is—just like all her sex—

Not good, then bad,—be sure of that:

In either case 't would a sage perplex

To make them out, both woman and cat.

A curious record, Hebe's. Reared

In Italy; age,—that's hard to fix; 441