Cleopatra

"Her beauty might outface the jealous hours,     Turn shame to love and pain to a tender sleep,     And the strong nerve of hate to sloth and tears;     Make spring rebellious in the sides of frost,     Thrust out lank winter with hot August growths,     Compel sweet blood into the husks of death,     And from strange beasts enforce harsh courtesy."     T. Hayman, Fall of Antony, 1655. I     Her mouth is fragrant as a vine,     A vine with birds in all its boughs;     Serpent and scarab for a sign     Between the beauty of her brows     And the amorous deep lids divine. II     Her great curled hair makes luminous     Her cheeks, her lifted throat and chin     Shall she not have the hearts of us     To shatter, and the loves therein     To shred between her fingers thus? III     Small ruined broken strays of light,     Pearl after pearl she shreds them through     Her long sweet sleepy fingers, white     As any pearl's heart veined with blue,     And soft as dew on a soft night. IV     As if the very eyes of love     Shone through her shutting lids, and stole     The slow looks of a snake or dove;     As if her lips absorbed the whole     Of love, her soul the soul thereof. V     Lost, all the lordly pearls that were     Wrung from the sea's heart, from the green     Coasts of the Indian gulf-river;     Lost, all the loves of the world, so keen     Towards this queen for love of her. VI     You see against her throat the small     Sharp glittering shadows of them shake;     And through her hair the imperial     Curled likeness of the river snake,     Whose bite shall make an end of all. VII     Through the scales sheathing him like wings,     Through hieroglyphs of gold and gem,     The strong sense of her beauty stings,     Like a keen pulse of love in them,     A running flame through all his rings. VIII     Under those low large lids of hers     She hath the histories of all time;     The fruit of foliage-stricken years;     The old seasons with their heavy chime     That leaves its rhyme in the world's ears. IX     She sees the hand of death made bare,     The ravelled riddle of the skies,     The faces faded that were fair,     The mouths made speechless that were wise,     The hollow eyes and dusty hair; X     The shape and shadow of mystic things,     Things that fate fashions or forbids;     The staff of time-forgotten Kings     Whose name falls off the Pyramids,     Their coffin-lids and grave-clothings; XI     Dank dregs, the scum of pool or clod,     God-spawn of lizard-footed clans,     And those dog-headed hulks that trod     Swart necks of the old Egyptians,     Raw draughts of man's beginning God; XII     The poised hawk, quivering ere he smote,     With plume-like gems on breast and back;     The asps and water-worms afloat     Between the rush-flowers moist and slack;     The cat's warm black bright rising throat. XIII     The purple days of drouth expand     Like a scroll opened out again;     The molten heaven drier than sand,     The hot red heaven without rain,     Sheds iron pain on the empty land. XIV     All Egypt aches in the sun's sight;     The lips of men are harsh for drouth,     The fierce air leaves their cheeks burnt white,     Charred by the bitter blowing south,     Whose dusty mouth is sharp to bite. XV     All this she dreams of, and her eyes     Are wrought after the sense hereof.     There is no heart in her for sighs;     The face of her is more than love,     A name above the Ptolemies. XVI     Her great grave beauty covers her     As that sleek spoil beneath her feet     Clothed once the anointed soothsayer;     The hallowing is gone forth from it     Now, made unmeet for priests to wear. XVII     She treads on gods and god-like things,     On fate and fear and life and death,     On hate that cleaves and love that clings,     All that is brought forth of man's breath     And perisheth with what it brings. XVIII     She holds her future close, her lips     Hold fast the face of things to be;     Actium, and sound of war that dips     Down the blown valleys of the sea,     Far sails that flee, and storms of ships; XIX     The laughing red sweet mouth of wine     At ending of life's festival;     That spice of cerecloths, and the fine     White bitter dust funereal     Sprinkled on all things for a sign; XX     His face, who was and was not he,     In whom, alive, her life abode;     The end, when she gained heart to see     Those ways of death wherein she trod,     Goddess by god, with Antony.