Circe

Where fair Ææia smiles across the sea

To olive-crowned Italia, th’ enchantress dwells —

A woman set about with dreams and spells,

Weird incantations, charms and mystery.

Most strangely pale and strangely fair is she —

Yet deadlier than the hemlock draught her smile,

Darker than Stygian glooms her subtle guile....

Drawn by her deep eyes’ spell, across the sea

The Argive galleys wing, till beached they lie

Upon the fatal strand. The Greeks beguile

The hasting hours with revelry and wine

Within her halls.... Eftsoon strange sorcery

The Circe weaves. They who were men erewhile

Now grovel at her feet, transformed to swine.

‘ Neath myriad mellow tapers’ golden glow

A woman stands, proud, insolent and fair;

A single gem meshed in the dusk-dyed hair

Burns like the evening star descending low

Adown the dark'ning sky. Upon the snow

Of her full-blossomed breast deep rubies lie.

Her fragrant presence breathes sweet sorcery;

The shimmering saffron satin's flexile flow

Outlines each sinuous curve; a sensuous smile,

A touch that fires to flame each pulsant vein —

One draught of eyes more deep than depths of wine

The senses steal, the soul and brain beguile

Till all seem merged in feeling... and again

A Circe's spells transform men into swine.