About Her Neck
There is joy untold in the wind-blown gold
Of your coppery-tinted hair,
And the light that lies in your turquoise eyes;
And your cheek—it is more than fair;
And the touch is grand of your wee white hand,
But the heart of a man shall wreck
In a glad amaze when he stops to gaze
At the nape of your splendid neck.
Let the poets sing o’er the lilt and swing
Of your lute-like voice and sweet,
Of your forehead fair, and the azure flare
Of your eyes, and your dainty feet;
Of your rose-red lips, of your finger-tips,
And kneel to your slightest beck;
Though I sing alone, I a song intone
To the nape of your witching neck.
‘Tis a column slim that the seraphim
Might envy you, and cold
Is the eye, indeed, that would give no heed
Where its ivory meets the gold
Of a crinkled tress like a soft caress,
Like a sunbeam gone to wreck;
Oh, it’s well you wis what I’d risk to kiss
Just the nape of your splendid neck.
Just the nape of it, where it seems to flit
Like a moon-ray through the fluff
Of your scolding-locks, and it gleams and mocks,
And never it gives enough
Of its beauty up for a soul-deep sup!
Ah, heaven itself might beck,
And might beck in vain, for I’d look again
To the nape of your perfect neck.