SWEET, with the dark of night entangled in
Her bright hair’s revelry, and with the sky’s
Clear blue illumining her eyes.
She comes – more sweet than hope may hope to win.
Out of the misty stillness of the night
She wakes, as I have seen a cloud-swathed moon
Wake o’er a shadowy lagoon:
She comes to me in dreams, and it is light.
Dear, I have loved you only. I have seen
Sometimes a faint half-glimpse of you elsewhere;
Gazing, I learnt a fresh despair
And knew my heart as void as it had been.
She lingers with my dream yet dare not stray
Beyond – alas! too fair she is and weak.
Her lips, her skin, her bloodless cheek.
Too sweet for life, would wither up by day.
I mourn to see – more grief, what else could move? –
Her cold white breast and neck, her phantom thighs.
Alas, her full red mouth and eyes
Are quick with love and yet she cannot love.
Is there no charm or hope that can forgive
My rapturous longing and her futile kiss?
I love! Can any grief match this?
She has not lived nor shall she ever live.
(E J Rupert Atkinson)
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