10.08.2014, 12:35
SALOME
UPON a salver in her rosy palms
She bears the slaughtered prophet's gory head;
Proudly, with placid face and queen-like tread —
Untroubled by a moment's rising qualms
To vex her maiden bosom's happy calms —
She goes where azure wreathes of perfume spread
From smoking censers, and soft lights are shed,
Round halls that throb with tabrets and with shalms.
Now, smiling, at her guilty mother's feet
She lays her gift. . . . Ay, those stern lips are mute
That erstwhile, all unawed before the seat
Of kings, did dare proclaim sin's loathsome fruit ;
Yet, hapless woman! o'er thee doom-clouds meet,
And fateful lightnings of God's anger shoot.
UPON a salver in her rosy palms
She bears the slaughtered prophet's gory head;
Proudly, with placid face and queen-like tread —
Untroubled by a moment's rising qualms
To vex her maiden bosom's happy calms —
She goes where azure wreathes of perfume spread
From smoking censers, and soft lights are shed,
Round halls that throb with tabrets and with shalms.
Now, smiling, at her guilty mother's feet
She lays her gift. . . . Ay, those stern lips are mute
That erstwhile, all unawed before the seat
Of kings, did dare proclaim sin's loathsome fruit ;
Yet, hapless woman! o'er thee doom-clouds meet,
And fateful lightnings of God's anger shoot.