Tuesday, August 9, 2011


Love her not, lovely though she be
Watch warily: there lies

A glint of ghoulish ancestry
Deep in her green bright eyes.

Half-closed, malign, and cold, they turn
From blessed morning light,

But like fierce chrysoberyls burn
When lamps are lit at night.

Her song's a lure, her laughter mocks,
And those white arms can wave

Like water-wraiths' above the rocks,
That charm men to their grave.

Her light feet lead brave dreams to nought,

Her clinging hands destroy,
She cannot think, or toys with thought

But as a fay might toy.

As a young witch in woodlands grey
For sport might pose and move

A dead maid's limbs, so doth she play
With what she calleth love.

Thy murdered heart in memory's lair

She will devour again,
Like as a wolfish hound might tear

His master lying slain.

That rose and cream-white beauty owns
No white soul dwelling there,

Those red lips' sensuous semitones
Know nought of truth - beware!

Edwin Percy Habberton Lulham