She Charged Me With Having Said This And That To Another Woman Long Years Before, In The Very Parlour Where We Sat, - Sat On A Night When The Endless Pour Of Rain On The Roof And The Road Below Bent The Spring Of The Spirit More And More . . . - So Charged She Me; And The Cupid'S Bow Of Her Mouth Was Hard, And Her Eyes, And Her Face, And Her White Forefinger Lifted Slow. Had She Done It Gently, Or Shown A Trace That Not Too Curiously Would She View A Folly Passed Ere Her Reign Had Place, A Kiss Might Have Ended It. But I Knew From The Fall Of Each Word, And The Pause Between, That The Curtain Would Drop Upon Us Two Ere Long, In Our Play Of Slave And Queen.