But the daughter of Herodias raised her
hands as though, engaged for ever in a mystic rite, to invoke outlandish
gods. Her face was very pale, and her dark eyes were sleepless; the
jewels of her girdle gleamed with sombre fires; and her dress was of
colours that have long been lost. The smile, in which was all the sorrow
of the world and all its wickedness, beheld the wan head of the Saint,
and with a voice that was cold with the coldness of death she murmured
the words of the poet:
'I am amorous of thy body, Iokanaan! Thy body is white like the lilies of
a field that the mower hath never mowed. Thy body is white like the snows
that lie on the mountains of Judea, and come down into the valleys. The
roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia are not so white as thy body.
Neither the roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia, the garden of
spices of the Queen of Arabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they light
on the leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she lies on the breast of
the sea... There is nothing in the world so white as thy body.
Pages:
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178