Soft-footed steps and wave of rosy veils;
And next the freshness and the eager stir
Of life that slept in beauty and awoke
To sing. So lyre and flute rose high, and leaped
The dancers in triumphant ecstacy.
And as it ended all that group retired,
And all the players of the lyre and flute,
And they, the Nubians of the chosen tribe.
And silence grew out through that mighty hall
Save where beyond the wall a sound was made
Like half-remembered music of a dream.
And the drooped lights purple and golden shone.
And through the air the rich Messenian wine
Left a sweet odor like the breath that stirs
The lips of Gods, when Gods are bent on love.
And Creon let his eyes through a long space
Fall on her, and he thrilled to think such beauty
Should be near his touch; gazed ever on those lips
That smiled less often than they seemed, and throat
Even more white than soft, and there below,
Just hidden by the loose robe girt around,
Her breasts made gradual swell, and the eloth flowed
Softly along her waist, o'er hips and thighs
Whose roundness made sweet magic of each fold;
And last his eye eaught on the sandalled feet
Crossed by thick-jeweled thongs that showed more dark
Against the tender white, where a small vein
Ran out a little tracery of blue.
Up in the east an eager radiance sprang
[ 14 ]
