WHAT days await this woman, whose strange feet Breathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine, Tall, free and slender as the forest pine, Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweet Frank eyes I feel the very heart's least beat, Keen, passionate, and full of dreams and fire: How in the end, and to what man's desire Shall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet? One thing I know: if he be great and pure, This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure; Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm: But if not this, some differing thing he be, That dream shall break in terror; he shall see The whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: DOMESDAY BOOK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE POOR-HOUSE by SARA TEASDALE AN ANSWER TO THE PARSON by WILLIAM BLAKE PICCIOLA by ROBERT HENRY NEWELL ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION; A POEM. ENLARGED VERSION: BOOK 4 by MARK AKENSIDE |