by: W.J. Turner
- HE stone-grey roses by the desert's
- Are soft-edged shadows on the moonlit sand,
- Grey are the broken walls of Conchubar,
- That haunt of nightingales, whose voices are
- Fountains that bubble in the dream-soft Moon.
- Shall the Gazelles with moonbeam pale bright feet
- Entering the vanquished gardens sniff the air--
- Some scent may linger of that ancient time,
- Musician's song, or poet's passionate rhyme,
- The Princess dead, still wandering love-sick there.
- A Princess pale and cold as mountain snow,
- In cool, dark chambers sheltered from the sun,
- With long dark lashes and small delicate hands:
- To kiss her mouth men sighed in many lands,
- Until in shifting sands they buried her.
- And the Gazelles shall flit by in the Moon
- And never shake the frail Tree's lightest leaves,
- And the moonlight roses perfume the pale Dawn,
- Until the scarlet life from her lips is drawn
- Gathers its shattered beauty in the sky.
POEMS BY W.J. TURNER
'The Princess' is reprinted from
An Anthology of Modern Verse. Ed. A. Methuen. London:
Methuen & Co., 1921.