The New Aspasia.

If I have given myself to you and you,         And if these pale hands are not virginal,         Nor these bright lips beneath your own lips true,         What matters it?    I do not stand nor fall         By your old foolish judgments of desire:         If this were Helen's way it is not mine;         I bring you beauty, but no Troys to fire:         The cup I hold brims not with Borgia's wine.         You, so soon snared of sudden brows and breasts,         Lightly you think upon these lips, this hair.         My thoughts are kinder: you are pity's guests:         Compassion's bed you share.         It was not lust delivered me to you;         I gave my wondering mouth for pity's sake,         For your strange, sighing lips I did but break         Many times this bread, and poured this wine anew.         My body's woven sweetness and kindling hair         Were given for heal of hurts unknown of me,         For something I could slake but could not share.         Sudden and rough and cruel I let you be,         I gave my body for what the world calls sin,         Even as for your souls the Nazarene         Gave once.    Long years in pity I and He         Have served you - Jesus and the Magdalen.         As on the river in the fading light         A rust-red sail across the evening creeps,         Torching the gloom, and slowly sinks from sight,         The blood may rise to some old face at night,         Remembering old sins before it sleeps.         So might you hence recall me, were I true         To your sad violence.    Were I not free         So me you might remember now; but you         Were no more loved by me         Than clouds at sunset, or the wild bird going         About his pleasure on the apple tree,         Or wide-blown roses swelling to the bee;         No sweeter than flowers suddenly found growing         In frost-bound dells, or, on the bare, high hills,         The gold, unlaced, dew-drunken daffodils         Shouting the dawn, or the brown river flowing         Down quietly to the sea;         Or day in twilight's hair bound safe and dim,         Stirless in lavender, or the wind blowing,         Tumbling the poppy's turban after him.         I knew you as I knew these happy things,         Passing, unwept, on wide and tranquil wings         To their own place in nature; below, above         Transient passion with its stains and stings.         For this strange pity that you knew not of         Was neither lust nor love.         Do not repent, nor pity, nor regret.         I do not seek your pardon, nor give you mine.         Pass by, be silent, drop no tears, forget.         Return not, make no sign         When I am dead, nor turn your lips away         From Phryne's silver limbs and Faustine's kiss.         I need no pity.    No word of pity say.         I have given a new sweet name and crown to this         That served men's lust and was Aspasia.