Yet wait, yet wait, I care not much to hear.
While on thy charger's throbbing neck I lean'd,
Romeward there pass'd across the violet slopes,
Five sacrificial bulls, with silver hides,
And horns as cusp'd and white as Dian's bow,
And lordly breasts which laid the honey'd thyme
Into long swarths, whence smoke of yellow bees
Rose up in puffs, dispersing as it rose,
For the great temple they; and as they pass'd
With quiet gait, I heard their drivers say:
The bulls were for the Altars, when should come
Word from the Oracles, as to the Pit,
O, Curtius, Curtius, in my soul I see
How black and fearful is its glutton throat;
I will not look!
O, Soul, be blind and see not! Then the men
Wav'd their long goads, still juicy from the vine,
And plum'd with bronzy leaves, and each to each,
Showed the sleek beauty of the rounded sides,
The mighty curving of the lordly breasts,
The level lines of backs, the small, fine heads,
And laugh'd and said, "The Gods will have it thus,
The choicest of the earth for sacrifice;
Let it be man, or maid, or lowing bull!"
Where lay the witchcraft in their clownish words,
To shake my heart? I know not; but it thrill'd,
As Daphne's leaves, thrill to a wind so soft,
One might not feel it on the open palm;
I cannot choose but laugh--for what have I
To do with altars and with sacrifice?
THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER CHERRY.
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