Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/212

198 And her feet seem shod with wings To entrance, For she leaps into a wild and rhythmic dance, Like Salome at the King’s. ’T is his aim Just to hold, to clasp her once against his breast, Hers to flee him, to elude him in the game. Ah, she fears him overmuch! Is it jest, Is it earnest ? a strange riddle lurks half-guessed In her horror of his touch. For each time That his snow-white fingers reach her, fades some ray From the glory of her beauty in its prime; And the knowledge grows upon us that the dance Is no play Twixt the pale, mysterious lover and the fay But the whirl of fate and chance. Where the tide Of the broad lagoon sinks plumb into the sea, There the mystic gondolier hath won his bride. Hark, one helpless, stifled scream! Must it be? Mimes and minstrels, flowers and music, where are ye? Was all Venice such a dream?