“My brains within my foolish head Are dancing La Tarantula, For just beyond the dahlia bed I saw my Lady Barbara. And all my veins are filled with flame, And all my comrades say the same.
“The Lady Barbara sits alway In a bower of buhl and jewellery, Rose curtains shield her from the day, And she sits and broiders her broidery. And looks at her purple flowers which die In her silver vases deliciously.
“And her hair comes floating lazily down Like ripples which a fountain makes, Woof of gold and warp of brown, Like the colour of Indian watersnakes. And she moves it quick as a swallow’s wing, Or the wings of a bee that is murmuring.
“I don’t think she is a woman at all, Her heart is made of chameleon-skin, Covered over with portraits small Of the lovers she has taken in. And I think I can hear her silvery laugh, As she looks at each poor little photograph.”
Her heart is like a nautilus shell Afloat on seas of silver light, Trimming and veering her sail so well At every breath of air in the night. And as quick to its nest as a harvest-mouse, Pflan! at a sound it’s safe in its house.
You offer yourself unask’d at her shrine, A foolish calf at her altar sighs, She smiles—forgets you—and why repine? Gods dont care much for one sacrifice Does Juggernaut care for his victims’ moans, Or is he to blame for their broken bones?
She sits in splendour like the sun, Shining with nothing at all to do, She expects to be worshipp’d by every one, But she does not much care for me or for you. “She’s a flirt and a humbug—Halte-là! Don’t speak ill of my Lady Barbara. C. Elton.
