The Slippers of the Goddess of Beauty

They clatter, clatter, clatter on the floor,Her slippers clack upon the marble slabs,And every time her heels clap, I count one,And go on counting till my nerves are sickWith one and one and one told out in claps.

He shot a hand out, clutching at my armWith bony fingers. "Young man,"' said he, "look up.Is that a starry face, or am I blind?Do stars beset her like a crown of pearls?Does sunset tinge and tangle in her hair,And moonlight rush in silver from her breasts?Look well, young man, for maybe I am blind."I looked, and agony assailed my brain.He chirruped at me. "So—so! Ancient eyesKnow better than to keep upon the floor.What dazzles you is kindly sight to me,One gets accustomed. But I interruptYour count. What figure had you reached?" I shookHim off and staggered to my room, bright painStabbing my head.Stabbing my head. I've never found that count,Nor started on another. Every dayI look a little longer when she comes,And see a little more, and bear to see.But that queer man I've never met again,Nor very much desired to, perhaps.Gratitude is an irksome thing to youth,And I, thank Hermes, am still reckoned young,Though old enough to look above the floor,Which is a certain age, I must admit.But I'll endure that, seeing what it brings.