The Englishman and Other Poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
page 44 of 75 (58%)
page 44 of 75 (58%)
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The Virgin Night, all languorous with dreams Of her beloved Darkness, rose in fear, Feeling the presence of another near. Outside her curtained casement shone the gleams Of burning orbs; and modestly she hid Her brow and bosom with her dusky hair. When lo! the bold intruder lurking there Leaped through the fragile lattice, all unbid, And half unveiled her. Then the swooning Night Fell pale and dead, while yet her soul was white Before that lawless Ravisher, the Light. The Muse said, Poet, nay; thou host not caught My meaning. For there lurks a thought Back of thy song. In art, all thought is wrong. Re-string thy lyre; and let the echoes bound To nothing but sweet sound. Strike now the chords And sing of WORDS One day sweet Ladye Language gave to me A little golden key. I sat me down beside her jewel box And turned its locks. And oh, the wealth that lay there in my sight. Great solitaires of words, so bright, so bright; |
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