Page:The Yellow Book - 04.djvu/226

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Hor. Car. I. 5
A Modern Paraphrase

By Charles Newton-Robinson

Pyrrha, the wan, the golden-tressed! For what bright boy are you waiting, dressed So witchingly, in your simple best?
Yes, like a witch in her cave, you sit In the gilded midnight, rosy-lit; While snares for souls of men you knit.
The boy shall wonder, the boy shall rue Like me, that ever he deemed you true. Mine is another tale of you.
For I have known that sea-calm brow Dark with treacherous gusts ere now, And saved myself, I know not how.
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