The asp, her baby, on her breast, <br />She falls asleep, <br />Ever, like Antony, to rest <br />While Nile shall keep <br />Its course, and Egypt be a name <br />Whose utterance stirs <br />The shadow on the Roman's fame, <br />His love and hers. <br />Out of the mire and mirth of Time, <br />By thought removed, <br />The life that might have shone sublime, <br />Nor unbeloved — <br />A doting mallard when her sail <br />From Actium flew, <br />He knew her love was, passion-pale, <br />The sword that slew! <br />Ah! even though her love was lust, <br />The swarthy Queen, <br />When her babe gave the mortal thrust, <br />A woman's mien <br />Wore, as her Circean eyes their last <br />Looked on the slave <br />And with her fatal witchery passed <br />Into the grave. <br />She yet shall stand in Beauty's list <br />A thing superb, <br />The Roman's light in Egypt's mist — <br />A lover's verb <br />That through his moods and tenses toned <br />A royal way, <br />And took Death rather than be loaned <br />To Caesar's sway.<br /><br />Robert Crawford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cleopatra-8/
