What days await this woman, whose strange feet <br />Breathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine, <br />Tall, free and slender as the forest pine, <br />Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweet <br />Frank eyes I feel the very heart's least beat, <br />Keen, passionate, full of dreams and fire: <br />How in the end, and to what man's desire <br />Shall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet? <br /> <br />One thing I know: if he be great and pure, <br />This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure; <br />Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm: <br />But if not this, some differing thing he be, <br />That dream shall break in terror; he shall see <br />The whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-forecast/
