Discover more from Dead Poets Daily
An Evening Meeting
The right is the color of spring mists. The lamp-flower falls, And the flame bursts out brightly. In the midst of the disorder of the dressing-table Lies a black eye-stone. A golden hairpin has fallen to the ground. She leans against a screen, Arch, coquettish, welcoming his arrival. Then suddenly striking the strings of her table-lute, She sings— And her face is like rain whitening the Gorge of Witches And like the bright busy movement of the Western Sea.