THE HOUSEMAID

by: Richard Le Gallienne (1866-1947)

OOR pulses ready still to beat

At any sound of Love's light feet,

Poor hungry heart too young to learn

Youth is no more, poor eyes that burn

Still on the women in the street.

 

O print-clad damsel, fresh and fair,

Bending above the threshold there

On supple knees and swaying line,

And honeyed curve--dear maid, be mine.

For O, I know about thy neck

Hide silver globes without a fleck,

About thy soft and odorous waist

I know what other joys are placed,

And those strong limbs that make a lap

As soft as down,--ah blessed hap

To lie therein; these round arms bare,

How strongly would you draw me there.

 

O how you make my blood a song,

And how this foolish heart will long,

And even brain will have its dream--

Ah there, far up the street a gleam

Turns like a wing, it is her hand,

She kisses it--we understand.

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