When they say love is sweet, the poets lie; ’Tis but a trick to catch poor maidens by. What are their boasted pleasures? I am queen To the most royal king the world has seen; Therefore I should, if any woman might, Know at its full that exquisite delight. Yet these few days since I was made a wife Have held more bitterness than all my life, While I was yet a child.” The great bright tears Slipped through her lashes. “Oh, my childish years! Years that were all my own, too sadly few, When I was happy—and yet never knew How happy till to-day!” Her maidens came About her as she wept, whispering her name, Leda, sweet Leda, with a hundred dear Caressing words to soothe her heavy cheer. At last she started up with a fierce pride Upon her face. “I am a queen,” she cried, “But had forgotten it a while; and you, Wenches of mine, you were forgetful too. Undress me. We would bathe ourself.” So proud A queen she stood, that all her maidens bowed In trembling fear and scarcely dared approach To do her bidding. But at last the brooch Pinned at her shoulder is undone, the wide Girdle of silk beneath her breasts untied; The tunic falls about her feet, and she Steps from the crocus folds of drapery, Dazzlingly naked, into the warm sun. God-like she stood; then broke into a run, Leaping and laughing in the light, as though Life through her veins coursed with so swift a flow Of generous blood and fire that to remain Too long in statued queenliness were pain To that quick soul, avid of speed and joy. She ran, easily bounding, like a boy, Narrow of haunch and slim and firm of breast. Lovelier she seemed in motion than at rest, If that might be, when she was never less, Moving or still, than perfect loveliness. At last, with cheeks afire and heaving flank, She checked her race, and on the river’s bank Stood looking down at her own echoed shape And at the fish that, aimlessly agape, Hung midway up their heaven of flawless glass, Like angels waiting for eternity to pass. Leda drew breath and plunged; her gasping cry Splashed up; the water circled brokenly Out from that pearly shudder of dipped limbs; The glittering pool laughed up its flowery brims, And everything, save the poor fish, rejoiced: Their idiot contemplation of the Moist, The Cold, the Watery, was in a trice Ended when Leda broke their crystal paradise.