My lady in her white silk shawl Is like a lily dim, Within the twilight of the room Enthroned and kind and prim. My lady! Pale gold is her hair. Until she smiles her face Is pale with far Hellenic moods, With thoughts that find no place In our harsh village of the West Wherein she lives of late, She`s distant as far-hidden stars, And cold — (almost!) — as fate. But when she smiles she`s here again Rosy with comrade-cheer, Puritan Bacchante made To laugh around the year. The merry gentle moon herself, Heart-stirring too, like her, Wakening wild and innocent love In every worshipper.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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