The darkness steals the forms of all the queens, <br />But oh, the palms of his two black hands are red, <br />Inflamed with binding up the sheaves of dead <br />Hours that were once all glory and all queens. <br /> <br />And I remember all the sunny hours <br />Of queens in hyacinth and skies of gold, <br />And morning singing where the woods are scrolled <br />And diapered above the chaunting flowers. <br /> <br />Here lamps are white like snowdrops in the grass; <br />The town is like a churchyard, all so still <br />And grey now night is here; nor will <br />Another torn red sunset come to pass.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/firelight-and-nightfall-2/
