Friday, December 21, 2007

Night-Wind by Beatrix Demarest Lloyd

Like some great pearl from out the Orient,
Upheld by unseen hands,—in its rich weight
An offering to adorn a queen’s proud state
That offering to adorn a queen’s proud state
That some dependent princeling did present,—
The moon slow rises into night’s dark tent.
The pulseless air, with longings vague befreight,
Now quickens ’neath her gaze, now doth inflate
The still-poised midnight clouds in heaven pent.
With jealous haste he draws them o’er her face,
And by his right forbids all other eyes
To note her beauty and to praise her grace;
Then up on lover’s wings to her he flies
Impatient for the joy of her embrace;
And to the earth are wafted down his sighs.

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