AT HER FEET

My head is at your feet,

Two Cytherean doves,

The same, O cruel sweet,

As were the Queen of Love's;

They brush my dreaming brows

With silver fluttering beat,

Here in your golden house,

Beneath your feet.

No man that draweth breath

Is in such happy case:

My heart to itself saith —

Though kings gaze on her face,

I would not change my place;

To lie here is more sweet,

Here at her feet.

As one in a green land

Beneath a rose-bush lies,

Two petals in his hand,

With shut and dreaming eyes,

And hears the rustling stir,

As the young morning goes,

Shaking abroad the myrrh

Of each awakened rose;

So to me lying there

Comes the soft breath of her,—

O cruel sweet!—

There at her feet.

O little careless feet

That scornful tread

Upon my dreaming head,

As little as the rose

Of him who lies there knows

Nor of what dreams may be

Beneath your feet;

Know you of me,

Ah! dreams of your fair head,

Its golden treasure spread,

And all your moonlit snows,

Yea! all your beauty's rose

That blooms to-day so fair

And smells so sweet —

Shoulders of ivory,

And breasts of myrrh —

Under my feet.