Etchings in Verse (Underhill)/Lisette

by Andrew Findlay Underhill

MADELEINE.

THOU seem'st of marble wrought, O Madeleine—
A cold Pentelic white, without a stain
  Of tints that show the faintest flush of fire.
Immovable, clear eyed, unknown of pain,
  Calm, still, well poised—before whose eyes desire
Flees fast as wind before a freezing rain,
              O Madeleine.

Ali men have yearned for thee, O Madeleine:
Thou hast not turned to them; thou would'st not deign
  To give one sign. So if I died, and fell—
With weary, aching eyes to stare and strain
  In prayerful supplication out of hell—
Like these, what pity could I hope to gain
            From Madeleine?

They sued to thee for love, O Madeleine.
They laid down wealth and power, but all in vain:
  Thy heart was agate then, and hard thine eyes.
None came as master, so each perished, slain
  Because he dared not woo in kingly guise,
And tell thy heart he held the right to reign
            O'er Madeleine.

What tho' they strove and lost, O Madeleine.
Because thou scorn'd'st their suit shall I refrain!
  The cold, clear air that round thy presence plays,
That chilled their love, can never now restrain
  The flame that burns, and all my being sways—
Deep in thine eyes the wine of love lies plain,
            O Madeleine!

Come closer now. Clasp hands, my Madeleine:
Press lips; drink deep the foam, till pulse and brain
  Have swooned, and in our fierce and mad embrace
The love we knew not in the days of pain
  Shall meet our inmost spirits face to face,
And rule with rod whose power ne'er shall wane,
            O Madeleine.