And Creon said: "Shall I
Make bright my person with soft blues of Media,
Arrogant purples out of Tyre, aglow
With jewels rich enough to furnish forth
Another fleet to sail on Syracuse?"'
And the queen looked on him a little space
And answered: "It is well. I had not thought
To wound thy pride of race, for where is he
Knows not the glory of the northern waters?
No idle wealth, but purity of thought
In forms surrounding. Fallen now from that,
But ah, how fallen is this land of Nile!
The mighty hand of Rome is stretched abroad
Over old Egypt; yea, and lays its hold
Upon my heart."
Speaking she led him towards
A couch and showed a place beside her there.
And Creon, gazing, thought the light of evening
Was truly dim, ay, hated half the dark
That thrusts a hand from out oblivion
To steal away all beauty like a thought.
Along the floor there lay great Moesian rugs,
And woven costly wools of Kermanshah
Wrought with bright colors hung across the couch,
And silks of Noahkahli, dyed in Ur.
Before them stood a table whose bright top
Was one quick flashing slab of almandine,
Deep black, yet touched with sudden lights of rose.
Then came a train of slaves in white sparse tunics
And the strong black limbs at every motion
[ 12 ]
