Arthur Symons (1865–1945)

EMMY’S exquisite youth and her virginal air,

Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile,

Come to me out of the past, and I see her there

As I saw her once for a while.

Emmy’s laughter rings in my ears, as bright,

Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook,

And still I hear her telling us tales that night,

Out of Boccaccio’s book.

There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall,

Leaning across the table, over the beer,

While the music madden’d the whirling skirts of the ball,

As the midnight hour drew near,

There with the women, haggard, painted and old,

One fresh bud in a garland wither’d and stale,

She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, told

Tale after shameless tale.

And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled,

Paused and broaden’d, and broke in a ripple of fun,

And the soul of a child look’d out of the eyes of a child,

Or ever the tale was done.

O my child, who wrong’d you first, and began

First the dance of death that you dance so well?

Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a man

Shall answer for yours in hell.