Her spell enfolds us. We can never thrust
Aside the bonds which hold to us the grey,
Wind haunted mallee; Satyr-like she may
Crush out the blood of life to slake the lust
That burns within her. Circe-wise she must
Fling curses where her lovers kneel to pray,
And souls that worshipped her in youth’s glad day
Are hurled before her in bitter dust.
In vain we leave her in our goading fear
To bathe where Lethe’s darkling waters flow,
‘Twere idle boast to say we could forget.
Her lone wind-music calls, and ever near
Her grim, stark beauty haunts us till we know
In sudden wonder that she claims us yet.
Alice M. Lapthorne.
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