by: Edgar Fawcett (1847-1904)
- SHAPE in
whose voluptuous bloom there lies
- Olympian faultlessness of mold and hue;
- Lips that a god were worthy alone to woo,
- Round chin, and nostrils curved in the old Greek wise.
- But there is no clear pallor of Arctic skies,
- Fathom on crystal fathom of livid blue,
- So bleakly cold that one might liken it to
- The pitiless, icy splendors of her eyes!
- Her bound hair, colored lovelier than the sweet,
- Rich halcyon yellow of tall harvest wheat,
- Over chaste brows a glimmering tumult sheds;
- But through the abundance of its warm, soft gold,
- Coils of lean horror peer from many a fold,
- With sharp tongues flickering in flat, clammy heads!
POEMS BY EDGAR FAWCETT
"Medusa" is reprinted
from The Atlantic Monthly, vol. 37, issue 223 (May 1876).