Of old, on her terrace at evening <br />...not here...in some long-gone kingdom <br />O, folded close to her breast!... <br /> <br />--our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness <br />(was it trees? or a shadowy passion <br />the pain of an old-world longing <br />that it sobb'd, that it swell'd, that it shrank?) <br />--the gloom of the forest <br />blurr'd soft on the skirt of the night-skies <br />that shut in our lonely world. <br /> <br />...not here...in some long-gone world... <br /> <br />close-lock'd in that passionate arm-clasp <br />no word did we utter, we stirr'd not: <br />the silence of Death, or of Love... <br />only, round and over us <br />that tearless infinite yearning <br />and the Night with her spread wings rustling <br />folding us with the stars. <br /> <br />...not here...in some long-gone kingdom <br />of old, on her terrace at evening <br />O, folded close to her heart!...<br /><br />Christopher John Brennan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/romance-4/
