The Equinox (Volume I, Number VI)

52 CIRCE HER mouth a rosebud of delight, Low—laughing ’mid the languid curls, Whose kissing cadence seems to cite The rhythmic melody of Night. Her hair a saraband where whirls A wanton witch, whose perfumes smite The shuddering air; a summer night Where summer lightning darts and curls. Her soul a Parian marble shrine, Centred in lily-cups that fold Their carven petals, smooth and cold, Far o’er a lake of frozen wine— Yet deep within whose inmost fold Sleepeth a snake: the crystal brine Of endless sorrow seals his shrine; Wiser than Sin is he, so old! ETHEL ARCHER.