  Fair sword of doom, and bright with martyr blood, Thee Regnault saw not as mine eyes have seen; No Judith of the Faubourg, mÆnad-queen, Pale on her tumbril-throne, when the live flood Foams through revolted Paris, unwithstood, Is of thy kin. Blossom and bud between, Clear-brow’d Salome, with her silk head’s sheen, Lips where a linnet might have pecked for food, Pure curves of neck, and dimpling hand aloft, Moved like a wave at sunrise. Herod said— “A boon for maiden freshness! Ask of me What toy may please, though half my Galilee;” And with beseeching eyes, and bird-speech soft, She fluted: “Give me here John Baptist’s head.” |
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