The Nineteenth Century
She walks the night with soft unsandalled tread,
And shrinks from morning, as from secret shame:
A sapphire diadem adorns her head;
And in her heart, there climbs a spire of flame.
Her hands were fashioned for celestial lyres
Or for the beads of love's sweet rosary;
Her eyes, composed of cool immortal fires;
Her words, arrayed in star-bright purity.
Bless my solitude, lucent Muse of Night!
(Prays the poet in dimly cloistered room) --
Rescue my soul from its obsessive gloom!
Hope's frail ghost lingers in the meagre light:
Will she, incarnate moon, dream-petalled flower,
Consent to consecrate his darkest hour?
Poetry by Thomas D
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Written on 2021-04-11 at 08:27
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