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.