They were at play, she and her cat,
And it was marvellous to mark
The white paw and the white hand pat
Each other in the deepening dark.
The stealthy little lady hid
Under her mittens' silken sheath
Her deadly agate nails that thrid
The silk-like dagger-points of death.
The cat purred primly and drew in
Her claws that were of steel filed thin:
The devil was in it all the same.
And in the boudoir, while a shout
Of laughter in the air rang out,
Four sparks of phosphor shone like flame.
_From La Bonne Chanson_
I
The white moon sits
And seems to brood
Where a swift voice flits
From each branch in the wood
That the tree-tops cover....
O lover, my lover!
The pool in the meadows
Like a looking-glass
Casts back the shadows
That over it pass
Of the willow-bower....
Let us dream: 'tis the hour....
A tender and vast
Lull of content
Like a cloud is cast
From the firmament
Where one planet is bright....
'Tis the hour of delight.