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There is no transcience of twilight in
      The beauty of your soft dusk-dimpled face,
      No flicker of a slender flame in space,
In crucibles, fragility crystalline.
There is no fragrance of the jessamine
      About you, no pathos of some old place
      At dusk, that crumbles like moth-eaten lace
Beneath the touch. Nor has there ever been.

Your love is like the folk-song's flaming rise
      In cane-lipped southern people, like their soul
             Which burst its bondage in a bold travail;
Your voice is like them singing, soft and wise,
      Your face, sweetly effulgent of the whole,
      Inviolate of ways that would fail.


Submitted by Stephen Fryer

Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 27 May 2012 5:31 AM | Viewed: 3049 times

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