The Devil's Maid
The Devil's Maid
The fragrant roses dare not dwell
around the fetid portal of hell
nor do gently and brightly twine
the scarlet leaves of columbine.
Gone is the beauty time betrayed
that once adorned the Devil's maid.
Dim is the fire that she has banked
deep in love's kiln, now cold and dank.
No crystal drops bedeck her eyes,
wrinkled flesh now line her thighs.
Tis the last cold hour of life's day,
or if you listen, so she will say.
The Devil's maid has lost her trust
and dotes on wear and age and rust.
Her thoughts are neither clean nor clear,
her image blurs in the Devil's mirror.
Instead of tresses, fine and gold,
she combs his poison through her soul.
Youth is beauty, the Devil said,
when it flees, ash shall crown your head.
And so his silken words she heeds
and dons a garland of his weeds
and sits her down to mourn and pine
for the blessed days of the columbine.
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