to a young Cleopatra

Where shall be found sand for the sieve
of her mind? What man will last this life?
What god of fire and earth will leave
the bloody field for a brazen wife?
One, with hands of sin gloved thick with grace,
who burns the carpet of the eyes,
and falters not in cruelest race
but gets the golden-apple prize-
this cunning man will enter swift
with desert winds, and from her lift
that arrogance from off her brow
and clear her mind, nor to her bow.
A well of water will he be,
a mirror and a silver tree,
her words will drown, reflect, or bloom
his intellect will give hers room.
His sand has stones, nor is naive
aye, a warrior-king will sift her sieve.
yet desert miles stretch on before
the way is shut. She is the door.