The Poetry Corner

At Her Feet

By Richard Le Gallienne

My head is at your feet, Two Cytherean doves, The same, O cruel sweet, As were the Queen of Love's; They brush my dreaming brows With silver fluttering beat, Here in your golden house, Beneath your feet. No man that draweth breath Is in such happy case: My heart to itself saith - Though kings gaze on her face, I would not change my place; To lie here is more sweet, Here at her feet. As one in a green land Beneath a rose-bush lies, Two petals in his hand, With shut and dreaming eyes, And hears the rustling stir, As the young morning goes, Shaking abroad the myrrh Of each awakened rose; So to me lying there Comes the soft breath of her, - O cruel sweet! - There at her feet. O little careless feet That scornful tread Upon my dreaming head, As little as the rose Of him who lies there knows Nor of what dreams may be Beneath your feet; Know you of me, Ah! dreams of your fair head, Its golden treasure spread, And all your moonlit snows, Yea! all your beauty's rose That blooms to-day so fair And smells so sweet - Shoulders of ivory, And breasts of myrrh - Under my feet.