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

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

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?