Her hair was, oh, so dense a blur <br />Of darkness, midnight envied her; <br />And stars grew dimmer in the skies <br />To see the glory of her eyes; <br />And all the summer rain of light <br />That showered from the moon at night <br />Fell o'er her features as the gloom <br />Of twilight o'er a lily-bloom. <br /> <br />The crimson fruitage of her lips <br />Was ripe and lush with sweeter wine <br />Than burgundy or muscadine <br />Or vintage that the burgher sips <br />In some old garden on the Rhine: <br />And I to taste of it could well <br />Believe my heart a crucible <br />Of molten love--and I could feel <br />The drunken soul within me reel <br />And rock and stagger till it fell. <br /> <br />And do you wonder that I bowed <br />Before her splendor as a cloud <br />Of storm the golden-sandaled sun <br />Had set his conquering foot upon? <br />And did she will it, I could lie <br />In writhing rapture down and die <br />A death so full of precious pain <br />I'd waken up to die again.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ylladmar/
