Perfume and makeup are my witch-wares?
With silk stockings past my knees, and heels?
I think not (For my heart, though flawed, is harmless as a dove).
But perhaps, my lipsticked mouth to your round eyes
unwittingly tells tales?
See. Clean hand to bosom.
White linen kept bright– Soul’s repose.
And how just, and fine, and straight, and right my nose.
And how safe open with children is my breast—
quiet rest, love. Quiet rest.
Nor fear a playful tapping, or a teasing, flowery scent,
Nor take alarm at gently curving hips
(That dance and sing with roses and cowslips)
or pearly teeth set neat in wondrous flight
behind my parted, happy lips
.
Summon no distress, catch no slight
(This woman’s naught but Woman, sir,
Not siren, and not witch). Instead,
Accept this kiss.
