A Wayside Queen

She was born in the season of fire,     When a mantle of murkiness lay     On the front of the crimson Destroyer:     And none knew the name of her sire     But the woman; and she, ashen grey,     In the fierce pangs of motherhood lay.     The skies were aflame at her coming     With a marvellous message of ill;     And fear-stricken pinions were drumming     The hot, heavy air, whence the humming     Of insects rose, sudden and shrill,     As they fled from that hell-begirt hill.     Then the smoke-serpent writhed in her tresses:     The flame kissed her hard on the lips:     She smiled at their ardent caresses     As the wanton who smiles, but represses     A lover's hot haste, and so slips     From the arm that would girdle her hips.     Such the time of her coming and fashion:     How long ere her day shall be sped,     And she goes to rekindle past passion     With languorous glances that flash on     The long-straightened limbs of the dead,     Where they lie in a winter-wet bed?     Where the wide waves of evergreen carry     The song sad and soft of the surge     To feathered battalions that harry     The wizen-armed bloodwoods that tarry     For ever, chained down on the verge     Of a river that mutters a dirge.     'Tis a dirge for the dead men it mutters     Those weed-entwined strangers who lie     With the drift in the whirlpools and gutters     Swoll'n hand or a garment that flutters     Wan shreds as the waters rush by,     And the flotsam, froth-freckled, rides high.     Is it there that she buries her lovers,     This woman in scarlet and black?     Those swart caballeros, the drovers     What sovranty set they above hers?     Riding in by a drought-beset track     To a fate which is worse than the rack.     A queen, no insignia she weareth     Save the dark, lustrous crown of her hair:     Her beauty the sceptre she beareth:     For men and their miseries careth     As little as tigresses care     For the quivering flesh that they tear.     She is sweet as white peppermint flowers,     And harsh as red gum when it drips     From the heart of a hardwood that towers     Straight up: she hath marvellous powers     To draw a man's soul through his lips     With a kiss like the stinging of whips.     Warm nights, weighted down with wild laughter,     When sex is unsexed and uncouth:     In the chorus that climbs to the rafter     No thought of the days to come after:     She has little regret and less ruth     As she tempts men to murder their youth.     Is she marked down as yet by the flaming     Great eye of the Righter of Wrong?     How long ere the Dreaded One, claiming     His due, shall make end of our shaming?     How long, Mighty Father, how long?'     Is our wearisome burden of song.     A queen, no insignia she weareth     Save the dark, lustrous crown of her hair:     Her beauty the sceptre she beareth:     For men and their miseries careth     As little as tigresses care     For the quivering flesh that they tear.     She is sweet as white peppermint flowers,     And harsh as red gum when it drips     From the heart of a hardwood that towers     Straight up: she hath marvellous powers     To draw a man's soul through his lips     With a kiss like the stinging of whips.     Warm nights, weighted down with wild laughter,     When sex is unsexed and uncouth:     In the chorus that climbs to the rafter     No thought of the days to come after:     She has little regret and less ruth     As she tempts men to murder their youth.     Is she marked down as yet by the flaming     Great eye of the Righter of Wrong?     How long ere the Dreaded One, claiming     His due, shall make end of our shaming?     How long, Mighty Father, how long?'     Is our wearisome burden of song.