My lady in her white silk shawl <br />Is like a lily dim, <br />Within the twilight of the room <br />Enthroned and kind and prim. <br /> <br />My lady! Pale gold is her hair. <br />Until she smiles her face <br />Is pale with far Hellenic moods, <br />With thoughts that find no place <br /> <br />In our harsh village of the West <br />Wherein she lives of late, <br />She's distant as far-hidden stars, <br />And cold — (almost!) — as fate. <br /> <br />But when she smiles she's here again <br />Rosy with comrade-cheer, <br />Puritan Bacchante made <br />To laugh around the year. <br /> <br />The merry gentle moon herself, <br />Heart-stirring too, like her, <br />Wakening wild and innocent love <br />In every worshipper.<br /><br />Vachel Lindsay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-lady-in-her-white-silk-shawl/
