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A Trois Temps.
80
From bondslaves of the law, then yield you up
To other arms, to those that—never more!
I shall not give you up. Before them all,
This gaping throng, the man whose name you bear,
And every other man who walks the earth,
I'll claim mine own. When once this waltz is done
I'll keep you in my arms—before them all—
And kiss you on the lips, and cry aloud—
"This woman is my own, is mine, is mine!"
And kiss your lips again, and holding you
Here close against my breast, defy them all,
And bid them come and take you. Ay, and fight
Them singly, or together press and drive
And strike and slay them with this hand of mine
That hath not strength of ten right hands for nought!
And then—before them all—I'll bear you off,
Out from the grinning throng, the lights, the hum
Of vapid voices, out into the dim,
Mysterious starlight, clean with solitude
And merciful with silence. I am sick—
Oh! sick and senseless with this beating down,
And hemming in, and choking back of all
The sources of my life. Why was I made
A giant among men, with strength, and wealth,