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Christopher Brennan - "Of old, on her terrace at evening . ."
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Of old, on her terrace at evening 
 — not here — in some long-gone kingdom 
 oh, folded close to her breast! 
 Our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness 
 (was it trees? or a shadowy passion 
 the pain of an old-world longing 
 that it sobb`d, that it swell`d, that it shrank?) 
 — the gloom of the forest 
 blurr`d soft on the skirt of the night-skies 
 that shut in our lonely world. 
 Not here — in some long-gone world... 
 Close-lock`d in that passionate arm-clasp 
 no word did we utter, we stirr`d not: 
 the silence of Death, or of Love. 
 Only, round and over us, 
 that tearless infinite yearning, 
 and the Night with her spread wings rustling, 
 folding us with the stars. 
 Not here - in some long-gone kingdom 
 of old, on her terrace at evening, 
 oh, folded close to her heart!
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