The Mother’s Tragedy

THE REAPER N middle music of Apollo’s corn She stood, the reaper, challenging a kiss; The lips of her were fresher than the morn, The perfume of her skin was ambergris; The sun had kissed her body into brown; Ripe breasts thrown forward to the summer breeze ; Warm tints of red lead fancy to the crown, Her coils of chestnut, in abundant ease, That bound the stately head. What joy of youth Lifted her nostril to respire the wind ? What pride of being? What triumphal truth Acclaimed her queen to her imperial mind ? I watched, a leopard, stealthy in the corn, As if a tigress held herself above; My body quivered, eager to be torn, Stung by the snake of some convulsive love! The leopard changed his spots; for in me leapt The mate, the tiger. Murderous I sprang Across the mellow earth: my senses swept, One torrent flame, one soul-dissolving pang. How queenly bent her body to the grip! How lithe it slips, her bosom to my own!