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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=350473" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Wayside Queen</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">She was born in the season of fire, <br>When a mantle of murkiness lay <br>On the front of the crimson Destroyer: <br>And none knew the name of her sire <br>But the woman; and she, ashen grey, <br>In the fierce pangs of motherhood lay. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The skies were aflame at her coming <br>With a marvellous message of ill; <br>And fear-stricken pinions were drumming <br>The hot, heavy air, whence the humming <br>Of insects rose, sudden and shrill, <br>As they fled from that hell-begirt hill. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then the smoke-serpent writhed in her tresses: <br>The flame kissed her hard on the lips: <br>She smiled at their ardent caresses <br>As the wanton who smiles, but represses <br>A lover's hot haste, and so slips <br>From the arm that would girdle her hips. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Such the time of her coming and fashion: <br>How long ere her day shall be sped, <br>And she goes to rekindle past passion <br>With languorous glances that flash on <br>The long-straightened limbs of the dead, <br>Where they lie in a winter-wet bed? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where the wide waves of evergreen carry <br>The song sad and soft of the surge <br>To feathered battalions that harry <br>The wizen-armed bloodwoods that tarry <br>For ever, chained down on the verge <br>Of a river that mutters a dirge. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis a dirge for the dead men it mutters— <br>Those weed-entwined strangers who lie <br>With the drift in the whirlpools and gutters— <br>Swoll'n hand or a garment that flutters <br>Wan shreds as the waters rush by, <br>And the flotsam, froth-freckled, rides high. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is it there that she buries her lovers, <br>This woman in scarlet and black? <br>Those swart caballeros, the drovers— <br>What sovranty set they above hers? <br>Riding in by a drought-beset track <br>To a fate which is worse than the rack. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A queen, no insignia she weareth <br>Save the dark, lustrous crown of her hair: <br>Her beauty the sceptre she beareth: <br>For men and their miseries careth <br>As little as tigresses care <br>For the quivering flesh that they tear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She is sweet as white peppermint flowers, <br>And harsh as red gum when it drips <br>From the heart of a hardwood that towers <br>Straight up: she hath marvellous powers <br>To draw a man's soul through his lips <br>With a kiss like the stinging of whips. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Warm nights, weighted down with wild laughter, <br>When sex is unsexed and uncouth: <br>In the chorus that climbs to the rafter <br>No thought of the days to come after: <br>She has little regret and less ruth <br>As she tempts men to murder their youth. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is she marked down as yet by the flaming <br>Great eye of the Righter of Wrong? <br>How long ere the Dreaded One, claiming <br>His due, shall make end of our shaming? <br>‘How long, Mighty Father, how long?' <br>Is our wearisome burden of song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A queen, no insignia she weareth <br>Save the dark, lustrous crown of her hair: <br>Her beauty the sceptre she beareth: <br>For men and their miseries careth <br>As little as tigresses care <br>For the quivering flesh that they tear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She is sweet as white peppermint flowers, <br>And harsh as red gum when it drips <br>From the heart of a hardwood that towers <br>Straight up: she hath marvellous powers <br>To draw a man's soul through his lips <br>With a kiss like the stinging of whips. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Warm nights, weighted down with wild laughter, <br>When sex is unsexed and uncouth: <br>In the chorus that climbs to the rafter <br>No thought of the days to come after: <br>She has little regret and less ruth <br>As she tempts men to murder their youth. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is she marked down as yet by the flaming <br>Great eye of the Righter of Wrong? <br>How long ere the Dreaded One, claiming <br>His due, shall make end of our shaming? <br>‘How long, Mighty Father, how long?' <br>Is our wearisome burden of song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Barcroft+Henry+Thomas+Boake">Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=350473" data-title="A Wayside Queen de Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake" data-description="She was born in the season of fire, 
When a mantle of murkiness lay 
On the front of the crimson Destroyer: 
And none knew the name of her sire 
But the woman; and she, ashen grey, 
In the fierce pangs of motherhood lay. 

The skies were aflame at..."></div>
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