| There is a queen in China, or maybe it’s in Spain, |
| And birthdays and holidays such praises can be heard |
| Of her unblemished lineaments, a whiteness with no stain, |
| That she might be that sprightly girl trodden
by a bird; |
| And there’s a score of duchesses, surpassing womankind, |
| Or who have found a painter to
make them so for pay |
| And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance of his mind: |
| I knew a phoenix
in my youth, so let them have their day. |
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| The young men every night applaud their Gaby’s laughing eye, |
| And Ruth St. Denis had more charm although she had poor luck; |
| From nineteen hundred nine or ten,
Pavlova’s had the cry, |
| And there’s a player in the States who gathers up her cloak |
| And flings herself out
of the room when Juliet would be bride |
| With all a woman’s passion, a child’s imperious way, |
| And there
are—but no matter if there are scores beside: |
| I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day. |
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| There’s Margaret and Marjorie and Dorothy and Nan, |
| A Daphne and a Mary who live in privacy; |
| One’s
had her fill of lovers, another’s had but one, |
| Another boasts, ‘I pick and choose and have but two or
three.’ |
| If head and limb have beauty and the instep’s high and light |
| They can spread out what sail they
please for all I have to say, |
| Be but the breakers of men’s hearts or engines of delight: |
| I knew a phoenix
in my youth, so let them have their day. |
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| There’ll be that crowd, that barbarous crowd, through all the
centuries, |
| And who can say but some young belle may walk and talk men wild |
| Who is my beauty’s equal,
though that my heart denies, |
| But not the exact likeness, the simplicity of a child, |
| And that proud look as
though she had gazed into the burning sun, |
| And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray. |
| I mourn for
that most lonely thing; and yet God’s will be done: |
| I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day. |
