Thy hair is dark and black as midnight deep,
complexion pale as that which lights the moon,
whose gentle rays caress the Earth, asleep,
as I would trace thine angled features hewn

of glinting marble. Round thy quiet feet
wind blooms of deadly beauty, buds and leaves
all twisting, writhing – reaching for thy sweet
and fearsome face. Beneath the poplar eaves

thy figure rests, content in silent dark.
The tender wind doth catch and hold your scent:
the sharp of mint, the depth of earth. A lark
begins to welcome dawn, and I lament.

For thee, my heart doth quail in love, in fear.
I wish for naught but night to bring thee near.