  Queen of the Courts of Love, she sleeps; one arm Pillowing her raven hair, as Dawn might Night, Or Day kiss Dusk; or Darkness, starry warm, Be gathered of her sister, rosy Light. Pale from the purple of the damask cloth One hand hangs, as a lily-bloom might, lone Above a bed of poppies; or a moth Might softly hover by a rose full-blown. Heraldic, rich, the costly coverings Sweep, fall'n in folds, pushed partly from her breast; As through storm-broken clouds the full moon springs, From these one orb of her pure bosom pressed. She sleeps: and where the moteless moonbeams sink Through blazoned panes—an immaterial snow— In wide, white jets, the lion-fur seems to drink With tawny jaws their wasted, winey glow. Light-lidded sleep and holy dreams are hers, Untouched of feverish sorrow or of care, Soft as the wind whose fragrant breathing stirs The moonbeam-tangled tresses of her hair. |
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