The Glory And The Dream

There in the past I see her as of old, Blue-eyed and hazel-haired, within a room Dim with a twilight of tenebrious gold; Her white face sensuous as a delicate bloom Night opens in the tropics. Fold on fold Pale laces drape her; and a frail perfume, As of a moonlit primrose brimmed with rain, Breathes from her presence, drowsing heart and brain. Her head is bent; some red carnations glow Deep in her heavy hair; her large eyes gleam; Bright sister stars of those twin worlds of snow, Her breasts, through which the veined violets stream; I hold her hand; her smile comes sweetly slow As thoughts of love that haunt a poet's dream; And at her feet once more I sit and hear Wild words of passion-dead this many a year.