She stood there carelessly arrayed
All in jewelled dress,
And leaning on the balustrade
She wept with bitterness,
For facing her there stood a maid
Of rival loveliness.
Once she had been indifferent
To languishment or guile,
But when I argued with intent
To hold her by a smile,
Upon my eyes her own were bent
For quite a little while.
The lady raised her fluttering hands.
"The night is cold," she said,
"For tropic men in northern lands,
For old maids still unwed,
And for the evil one who stands
In heaven when he's dead."
She turned and gazed upon that face
As lovely as her own,
The poise of beauty and of grace
That matched her grace alone....
And in that close and silent place
I heard the lady moan.
I held the lady to my breast
And kissed her mouth and eyes.
She sighed and snuggled down to rest
Without the least surprise,
While I told tales of sweet unrest
That sounded very wise.
"They say I'm mad," she whispered then,
"I weep for dear despair,
No matter where I go, dark men
Follow me everywhere...."
To quiet her I kissed again
Her locks of golden hair.
"Great God!" she cried with finished grace,
"That woman whom I hate."
I looked and in a mirror's face
I saw the lady's mate.
Then quiet men of that strange place
Came down the halls of state.
They took the lady tenderly
Away from sound and sight.
I answered not. It seemed to me
As though they must be right.
So I smashed the mirror utterly
And fled into the night.