What rare dark woman of my world Can wear white lace As Lola does? Something I think it is About the smooth cold look of her -- Her little jewelled head, And her skin's mat-ivory gleam, And a way she has Of being still. The flower-shadows in the lace Droop like soft fingers Down her limbs' long glacial Purity of line. And who but a cold high woman Could twine lace about her throat -- Could hold her charm Through all the intricate pale harmonies, The dim strange other-world Of silky shadow and sharp light? I would not touch Lola Wearing lace, Knowing how shine her eyes' dark diamonds Like flames Refleflcted in the cloudy surfaces Of mirrors; But I would be near her, Deep compounded as she seems Of smoky essences Drawn from slow-dying vapors That glow by night -- Cold zenith streamer, Dreaming the aurora of some Scornful day! |