Medusa
by Humbert Wolfe (1885-1940)

In your black hair are there not nightingales
   Singing in the dark, and when you let it down
Is there no stir in the air of tiniest sails
   That ever on lost seas of song were blown?

In your black hair the heart of Hyacinth
   Laments the daylight he shall see no more,
And flowers are red as in the labyrinth
   The red eyes of the crazy Minotaur.

In your black hair, Medusa, there are snakes
   That twine themselves about Laocoon,
How soft, how warm! and how the poor heart breaks
   Before they strike and turn it into stone.

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