Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
ProfileCharles deGuire Christoph
T
I saw at the Louvre—some Ceasar’s wife
Tranquil and wise, gazing unregretfully
Across the hysteric ages into old Rome.
Lay at her feet, and watched the evening light
Stamp her face on the smooth wall; and wondered
At her beauty—and how the shadows of her lashes
Made fine laces on her cheeks, and how her eyes
Caught the sun and burned deeply and evenly.
And he smiled at the amorous curve of her chin and wished
To touch her lips—wine and silk and poesy.
My lady has a leper’s heart; her lips
Are torture, and her eyes reflect such shame
There is no help; and on her cheek there clings
The sad voluptuousness of drunken Time,
Dancing like a cretin in an aimless whirl.
To gain such end while all the wise ones sneer.
When years have tired, and turn their meagre faces
Again to the old, there may again be peace
For poets singing; there may again be love.