THE PRINCESS

by: W.J. Turner

HE stone-grey roses by the desert's rim

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.