A Trois Temps.
79
He—
And still a fool's. Why should I bear it? Why?
I can endure no more. This one sweet span,
This little moment, plucked from out the great
Blank desert of my days, this tiny spark
Of time that burns so quickly to its dark
Effacement, this one happy moment when
The fetish law allows me thus to hold
You in my arms, and thus to clasp your hand,
And thus to draw your slender body close
Until I feel the beating of the heart
That times my own, and mark the mystery
Of half-hid shoulders gleaming amid lace,
And little wayward curls blown here and there
About the milk-white curving of your throat,
This little moment, trembling with the sheer
Delight of being—this is all, is all
That I may dare to claim from out your life,
This momentary dance, when, to the beat.
Of low, impassioned music, and the hum
Of vapid voices, and the silken sweep
Of trailing gowns, I hold you lightly thus
And school my face to vacancy, and train
My heart's-cry to the level tones required
And still a fool's. Why should I bear it? Why?
I can endure no more. This one sweet span,
This little moment, plucked from out the great
Blank desert of my days, this tiny spark
Of time that burns so quickly to its dark
Effacement, this one happy moment when
The fetish law allows me thus to hold
You in my arms, and thus to clasp your hand,
And thus to draw your slender body close
Until I feel the beating of the heart
That times my own, and mark the mystery
Of half-hid shoulders gleaming amid lace,
And little wayward curls blown here and there
About the milk-white curving of your throat,
This little moment, trembling with the sheer
Delight of being—this is all, is all
That I may dare to claim from out your life,
This momentary dance, when, to the beat.
Of low, impassioned music, and the hum
Of vapid voices, and the silken sweep
Of trailing gowns, I hold you lightly thus
And school my face to vacancy, and train
My heart's-cry to the level tones required
