At her side a fair one rode-- Fair, but not by Grecian lines Was she fair; for all her features Shone with wondrous Celtic glow. 'Twas Abunda, fairy queen, Whom to know I could not fail By the sweetness of her smile And the madness of her laugh! Full and rosy was her face, Like the faces limned by Greuze; And from out her heart-shaped mouth Flashed the splendour of her teeth! All the winds made dalliance With her robe of azure blue, And such shoulders never I In my wildest dreams beheld. I was almost moved to leap From the window for a kiss; This had been sheer folly, true, Ending in a broken neck! Ah, and she, she would have laughed If within that awful gulf I had fallen at her feet;-- Laughter such as this I know! And the third fair phantom, she Who so moved my errant heart,-- Was this but some female fiend Like the other figures twain? Whether devil this or saint Know I not. With women, ah, None can ever know where saint Ends nor where the fiend begins. All the magic of the East Lay within her glowing face, And her dress brought memories Of Scheherazadê's tales. Lips as red as pomegranates And a curved nose lily white, Limbs as slender and as cool As some green oasis-palm. From her palfrey white she leaned, Flanked by giant Moors who trod Close beside the queenly dame Holding up the golden reins. Of most royal blood was she, She the Queen of old Judea, She great Herod's lovely wife, She who craved the Baptist's head. For this crimson crime was she Banned and cursed. Now in this chase Must she ride, a wandering spook, Till the dawn of Judgment Day. Still within her hands she bears That deep charger with the head Of the Prophet, still she kisses-- Kisses it with fiery lips. For she loved the Prophet once, Though the Bible naught reveals, Yet her blood-stained love lives on Storied in her people's hearts. How might else a man declare All the longing of this lady? Would a woman crave the head Of a man she did not love? She perchance was slightly vexed With her darling, and was moved To behead him, but when she On the trencher saw his head, Then she wept and lost her wits, Dying in love's madness straight. (What! Love's madness? pleonasm! Love itself is madness still!) Rising nightly from her grave, To this frenzied hunt she hies, In her hands the gory head Which with feline joy she flings High into the air betimes, Laughing like a wanton child, Cleverly she catches it Like some idle rubber ball.