---

Amy Lowell - Nuit Blanche
Work rating: Low

I want no horns to rouse me up to-night, 
And trumpets make too clamorous a ring 
To fit my mood, it is so weary white 
I have no wish for doing any thing. 


A music coaxed from humming strings would please; 
Not plucked, but drawn in creeping cadences 
Across a sunset wall where some Marquise 
Picks a pale rose amid strange silences. 


Ghostly and vaporous her gown sweeps by 
The twilight dusking wall, I hear her feet 
Delaying on the gravel, and a sigh, 
Briefly permitted, touches the air like sleet 


And it is dark, I hear her feet no more. 
A red moon leers beyond the lily-tank. 
A drunken moon ogling a sycamore, 
Running long fingers down its shining flank. 


A lurching moon, as nimble as a clown, 
Cuddling the flowers and trees which burn like glass. 
Red, kissing lips, I feel you on my gown— 
Kiss me, red lips, and then pass—pass. 


Music, you are pitiless to-night. 
And I so old, so cold, so languorously white.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.