Robed in a silken robe that shines and shakes, She seems to dance whene'er she treads the sod, Like the long serpent that a fakir makes Dance to the waving cadence of a rod.
As the sad sand upon the desert's verge, Insensible to mortal grief and strife; As the long weeds that float among the surge, She folds indifference round her budding life.
Her eyes are carved of minerals pure and cold, And in her strange symbolic nature where An angel mingles with the sphinx of old,
Where all is gold and steel and light and air, For ever, like a vain star, unafraid Shines the cold hauteur of the sterile maid.
End of title
Sign in to unlock this title
Sign in to continue reading, it's free! As an unregistered user you can only read a little bit.
