ST. DESERET
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ou wonder at my bright round eyes, my lipsPressed tightly like a venomous rosette.Thus do me honor by so much, fond wretch,And praise my Persian beauty, dulcet voice.But oh you know me, read me, passion blindsYour vision not at all, and you have passionFor me and what I am. How can you be so?Hold me so bear-like, take my lips with yours,Bury your face in these my russet tresses,And yet not lose your vision? So I love you,And fear you too. How idle to deny itTo you who know I fear you. Here am IWho answer you what e'er you choose to ask.You stride about my rooms and open books,And say when did he give you this? You pickHis photograph from mantels, dressers, drawlOut of ironic strength, and smile the while:"You did not love this man." You probe my soulAbout his courtship, how I ran away,How he pursued with gifts from city to city,Threw bouquets to me from the pit, or stood Like Cleopatra's Giant negro guard,Watchful and waiting at the green-room door.So, devil, that you are, with needle pricks,One little question at a time, you've inkedThe story in my flesh. And now at lastYou smile and say I killed him. Well, it's true.But what a death he had! Envy him that.Your frigid soul can never win the deathI gave him.
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