As it
Were tissue of silver
I'll wear, O Fate, thy grey,
And go mistily radiant, clad
Like the moon.

Dost thou
Not feel them slip,
How cold! how cold! the moon's
Thin wavering finger-tips, along
Thy throat?

But me
They cannot touch,
Old age and death. The strange
And ignominious end of old
Dead folk!

These be three silent things: The Falling snow... the hour before the dawn... the mouth of one just dead.

Why do
You thus devise
Evil against her?' 'For that
She is beautiful, delicate;
Therefore.

When I was girl by Nilus stream
I watched the deserts stars arise;
My lover, he who dreamed the Sphinx,
Learned all his dreaming from eyes.

I bore in Greece a burning name,
And I have been in Italy
Madonna to a painter-lad,
And mistress to a Medici.

And have you heard (and I have heard)
Of puzzled men with decorous mien,
Who judged - the wench knew far too much -
And burnt her on the Salem green?