On that great night of her success,
When by her mirror she disrobed;
A finger's dubitative press
She laid on her pulse, as one who probed,
Yet found no shot, nor sounded the deep void;
And sternly at the reflex of her frown
She gazed unthinking, save that unenjoyed
Was now the ripe fruit showering down,
Once coveted, too long witheld;
Sharp with the pain of pleasure dead.