Of old, on her terrace at evening <br />— not here — in some long-gone kingdom <br />oh, folded close to her breast! <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 />Not here — in some long-gone world... <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 />Not here - in some long-gone kingdom <br />of old, on her terrace at evening, <br />oh, folded close to her heart!<br /><br />Christopher John Brennan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/of-old-on-her-terrace-at-evening/
