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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=464740" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The New Aspasia</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">If I have given myself to you, and you,<br>And if these pale hands are not virginal,<br>Nor these bright lips beneath your own lips true,<br>What matters it? I do not stand nor fall<br>By your old foolish judgments of desire:<br>If this were Helen's way it is not mine;<br>I bring you Beauty, but no Troys to fire:<br>The cup I hold brims not with Borgia's wine.<br>You, so sudden snared of brows and breasts,<br>Lightly you think upon these lips, this hair.<br>My thoughts are kinder: you are pity's guests:<br>Compassion's bed you share.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was not lust delivered me to you;<br>I gave my wondering mouth for pity's sake,<br>For your strange, sighing lips I did but break<br>Many times this bread, and poured this wine anew.<br>My body's woven sweetness and kindling hair<br>Were given for heal of hurts unknown of me,<br>For something I could slake but could not share.<br>Sudden, and rough, and cruel I let you be,<br>I gave my body for what the world calls sin,<br>Even as for your souls the Nazarene<br>Gave once. Long years in pity I and He<br>Have served you-Jesus and the Magdalen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As on the river in the fading light<br>A rust-red sail across the evening creeps,<br>Torching the gloom, and slowly sinks from sight,<br>The blood may rise to some old face at night,<br>Remembering old sins before it sleeps.<br>So might you hence recall me, were I true<br>To your sad violence. Were I not free<br>So me you might remember now; but you<br>Were no more loved by me than<br>Than clouds at sunset, or the wild bird going<br>About his pleasure on the apple tree,<br>Or wide-blown roses swelling to the bee;<br>No sweeter than flowers suddenly found growing<br>In frost-bound dells, or, on the bare, high hills,<br>The gold, unlaced, dew-drunken daffodils<br>Shouting the dawn, or the brown river flowing<br>Down quietly to the sea;<br>Or day in twilight's hair bound safe and dim,<br>Stirless in lavender, or the wind blowing,<br>Tumbling the poppy's turban after him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I knew you as I knew these happy things,<br>Passing, unwept, on wide and tranquil wings<br>To their own place in nature; below, above<br>Transient passion with its stains and stings.<br>For this strange pity that you knew not of<br>Was neither lust nor love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Do not repent, nor pity, nor regret.<br>I do not seek your pardon, nor give you mine.<br>Pass by, be silent, drop no tears, forget.<br>Return not, make no sign<br>When I am dead, nor turn your lips away<br>From Phyrne's silver limbs and Faustine's kiss.<br>I need no pity. No word of pity say.<br>I have given a new sweet name and crown to this<br>That served men's lust and was Aspasia.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Muriel+Stuart">Muriel Stuart</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=464740" data-title="The New Aspasia de Muriel Stuart" data-description="If I have given myself to you, and you,
And if these pale hands are not virginal,
Nor these bright lips beneath your own lips true,
What matters it? I do not stand nor fall
By your old foolish judgments of desire:
If this were Helen's way it is no..."></div>
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