There is darkness behind the light -- and the pale light drips <br />Cold on vague shapes and figures, that, half-seen loom <br />Like the carven prows of proud, far-triumphing ships -- <br />And the firelight wavers and changes about the room, <br /> <br />As the three logs crackle and burn with a small still sound; <br />Half-blotting with dark the deeper dark of her hair, <br />Where she lies, head pillowed on arm, and one hand curved round <br />To shield the white face and neck from the faint thin glare. <br /> <br />Gently she breathes -- and the long limbs lie at ease, <br />And the rise and fall of the young, slim, virginal breast <br />Is as certain-sweet as the march of slow wind through trees, <br />Or the great soft passage of clouds in a sky at rest. <br /> <br />I kneel, and our arms enlace, and we kiss long, long. <br />I am drowned in her as in sleep. There is no more pain. <br />Only the rustle of flames like a broken song <br />That rings half-heard through the dusty halls of the brain. <br /> <br />One shaking and fragile moment of ecstasy, <br />While the grey gloom flutters and beats like an owl above. <br />And I would not move or speak for the sea or the sky <br />Or the flame-bright wings of the miraculous Dove!<br /><br />Stephen Vincent Benet<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-in-twilight/
