The masque is over and, she alone,
The Queen of the Revel, sits on her throne,
A purple cushion of velvet fine,
Drinking the last of the blood-red wine.

What are her thoughts in the dreamy trance?
Of the lovers who whirled her in the dance?
And whispered the while in her willing ear
Of the wonderful beauty without a peer.

Perhaps of the women whose envious eyes
Showed all too plainly their jealousies
Of the sinuous form, of the skin so fair,
And the midnight tresses beyond compare.

Or is she but full of proud delight
Of the triumphs sweet that have crowned the night?
As there on the cushion she lies supine,
Draining the last of the blood-red wine.

Ah, can it be in her dream is nursed,
One thought of the lover who kissed her first,
In the spring sweet meadows so far away,
When life was pure as a flower in May.

Not so! She is done with all those days,
Her life is wrapped in a sensuous haze,
Hidden away in a roseate gloom,
Made sweet with a topical sin-perfume.

And her far-off look on the air is set,
As if counting  the souls she will ruin yet,
As if here she lies in the velvet fine,
Draining the last of the blood-red wine.