IN Undine's mirror the cutpurse found <br />Five candlesticks by magic drowned, <br />Like boughs of silver . . . and pale as death, <br />Biting his beard, till the rogue's own breath <br />Shook all their gourds of fire, he stopped, <br />Eyed the gilt baskets, gaped half-round . . . . <br />Then down to the floor his pistol dropped . . . . <br />No sound in the dark rooms . . . the clank <br />Of metal and beam died fast . . . and flank <br />Pressed in strange fear to Undine's bed, <br />The robber stared long, and bent his head <br />To that soft wave . . . then hand on silk, <br />Plumbed the warm valley where nightly sank <br />Undine the water-maid, caved in milk. <br />And over those pools, the rogue could smell <br />Rich essences globed and stoppered well <br />On Undine's table . . . and row by row, <br />Jars of green china foamed stiff with snow, <br />And crystal trays and bottles of stone <br />Bowed like black slaves to that ivory shell, <br />The body of Undine . . . but Undine was gone. <br />Only below the candles' gleam, <br />In one small casket of waxen cream <br />With sidelong eyes the thief could follow <br />That rosy trough, the printed hollow <br />Of Undine's finger . . . then out to the street <br />He sprawled and fled . . . but still on the beam <br />His pistol waited for Undine's feet!<br /><br />Kenneth Slessor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/undine-2/
