At last I free my spirit from your sweetness
And purge my heart of your so potent spell,
No cobweb fancies linger, with completeness
I’ve conquered all the arts your eyes compel.
No magic lies for me in your blue glances,
No subtle music lures me when you speak,
No more the blood through throbbing pulses dances
Because an eyelash trembles on your cheek.
Yes, I am free! And marble is not colder
To sunlight than my heart in its new calm.
Yes, I am free — but do not touch my shoulder
Nor lay in mine a little roseleaf palm.
And — weeping? Dearest, I am only free
To seek again such sweet captivity.
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, page 86