Christopher John Brennan.
Romance
Of old, on her terrace at evening
...not here...in some long-gone kingdom
O, folded close to her breast!...
--our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness
(was it trees? or a shadowy passion
the pain of an old-world longing
that it sobb'd, that it swell'd, that it shrank?)
--the gloom of the forest
blurr'd soft on the skirt of the night-skies
that shut in our lonely world.
...not here...in some long-gone world...
close-lock'd in that passionate arm-clasp
no word did we utter, we stirr'd not:
the silence of Death, or of Love...
only, round and over us
that tearless infinite yearning
and the Night with her spread wings rustling
folding us with the stars.
...not here...in some long-gone kingdom
of old, on her terrace at evening
O, folded close to her heart!...
Poppies
Where the poppy-banners flow
in and out amongst the corn,
spotless morn
ever saw us come and go
hand in hand, as girl and boy
warming fast to youth and maid,
half afraid
at the hint of passionate joy
still in Summer's rose unshown:
yet we heard nor knew a fear;
strong and clear
summer's eager clarion blown
from the sunrise to the set:
now our feet are far away,
night and day,
do the old-known spots forget?
Sweet, I wonder if those hours
breathe of us now parted thence,
if a sense
of our love-birth thrill their flowers.
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