THE HOUSE OF THE STRANGE WOMAN

THE House of the Strange Woman Whoso enters in, Much shall he lose, but thereby Much also shall he win. The room is draped in velvet, Sombre, funereal; A grey, grey veil of silence Enswathes it as a pall. Her robes are of royal purple, For ruler is she, I ween, Exerting great dominion, Captor and lure and queen. Her form, blanched as the snowdrift, So white, so white is it, Recalleth some mystic cloister Wherethrough do white bats flit. Her hair drowns breasts and shoulders In waves of bronze and gold, Like the glint of brazen armour In a battle picture of old. Her eyes are dark with slumber, Dark, dark are they as jet; Her lips, so redly fashioned, Whisper the word, “Forget!” She mixes the cup nepenthe, She sips of it, and then She pledges the weakly sinning, And the weaklings sin like men. This is life’s wine audacious That flameth in heart and brain. In long, long draughts of the vintage They pledge to her again. The House of the Strange Woman Whoso enters in, Shall lose—but, ah, what matter Beside what he shall win?