There is a queen in China, or maybe it's in Spain, And birthdays and holidays such praises can be heard Of her unblemished lineaments, a whiteness with no stain, That she might be that sprightly girl who was trodden by a bird; And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing womankind, Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance of his mind: I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day. The young men every night applaud their Gaby's laughing eye, And Ruth St. Denis had more charm although she had poor luck, From nineteen hundred nine or ten, Pavlova's had the cry, And there's a player in the States who gathers up her cloak And flings herself out of the room when Juliet would be bride With all a woman's passion, a child's imperious way, And there are--but no matter if there are scores beside: I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day. There's Margaret and Marjorie and Dorothy and Nan, A Daphne and a Mary who live in privacy; One's had her fill of lovers, another's had but one, Another boasts, 'I pick and choose and have but two or three.' If head and limb have beauty and the instep's high and light, They can spread out what sail they please for all I have to say, Be but the breakers of men's hearts or engines of delight: I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day. There'll be that crowd to make men wild through all the centuries, And maybe there'll be some young belle walk out to make men wild Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies, But not the exact likeness, the simplicity of a child, And that proud look as though she had gazed into the burning sun, And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray, I mourn for that most lonely thing; and yet God's will be done, I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day. A THOUGHT FROM PROPERTIUS She might, so noble from head To great shapely knees, The long flowing line, Have walked to the altar Through the holy images At Pallas Athene's side, Or been fit spoil for a centaur Drunk with the unmixed wine. BROKEN DREAMS There is grey in your hair. Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath When you are passing; But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing Because it was your prayer Recovered him upon the bed of death. For your sole sake--that all heart's ache have known, And given to others all heart's ache, From meagre girlhood's putting on Burdensome beauty--for your sole sake Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom, So great her portion in that peace you make By merely walking in a room.