Upon a cashmere opulently spread, Sultana of Seraglio then she lay, Laughing unto her little mirror gay, That laughed again with lips of coral red; The indolent, soft Georgian, posturing With her long, supple narghile at lip, Showing the glorious fashion of her hip, One foot upon the other languishing. And, like to Ingres' Odalisque, supine, Defying prurient modesty turned she, Displaying in her beauty candidly Wonder of curve and purity of line. But hence, thou idle Odalisque! for life Hath now its own fair picture to display-- The diamond in its rare effulgent ray,-- Beauty in Love hath reached its blossom rife. She sways her body, bendeth back her head. Her breathing comes more subtle and more fast. Rocked in her dream's alluring arms, at last Down hath she fallen upon her costly bed. Her eyelids beat like fluttering pinions lit Upon the darkened silver of her eyes. Her bright, voluptuous glances upward rise Into the vague and nacreous infinite. Deck her with sweet, lush violets, instead Of death-flowers with their every pearl a tear; Scatter their purple clusters on her bier, Who of her being's ecstasy lies dead. And bear her very gently to her tomb-- Her bed of white. There let the poet stay, Long hours upon his bended knees to pray, When night shall close around the funeral room. A STUDY OF HANDS I IMPERIA A sculptor showed to me one day A hand, a Cleopatra's lure, Or an Aspasia's, cast in clay, Of masterwork a fragment pure. Seized in a snowy kiss, and fair As lily in the argent rise Of dawn, like whitest poem there Its beauty lay before mine eyes, Bright in its pallor lustreless, Reposing on a velvet bed, Its fingers, weighted with their dress Of jewels, delicately spread. A little parted lay the thumb, Showing the undulating line, Beautiful, graceful, subtlesome, Of its proud contour Florentine. Strange hand! I wonder if it toyed In silken locks of Don Juan, Or on a gem-bright caftan joyed To stroke the beard of some soldan; Whether, as courtesan or queen, Within its fingers fair and slight Was pleasure's gilded sceptre seen, Or sceptre of a royal might! But sweet and firm it must have lain Full oft its touch of power rare Upon the curling lion-mane Of some chimera caught in air. Imperial, idle fantasy, And love of soft, luxurious things, Frenzies of passion, wondrous, free, Impossible dream-flutterings! Romances wild, and poesy Of hasheech and of wine, vain speeds Beneath Bohemia's brilliant sky On unrestrained and maddened steeds! All these were in the lines of it, Of that white book with magic scrolled, Where ciphers stood, by Venus writ, That Love had trembled to behold. II LACENAIRE Strange contrast was the severed hand Of Lacenaire, the murderer dead, Soaked in a powerful essence, and Near by upon a cushion spread. Letting a morbid fancy win, I touched, despite my loathing sane, The cold, hair-covered, slimy skin, Not yet washed clean of deathly stain.