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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509180" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Red-Tressed Maiden</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">RED she is in a robe of sable,<br>Rosy with pictures and tales to tell:<br>She is a fairy, and yet no fable,<br>Weaving the dreams that we love so well.<br>Out in the dark where the night-winds hurry<br>And dead leaves carpet the silent bush,<br>She has a charm for minds that worry,<br>For the worn white face a fresh young blush.<br>Tell her a story of some love laid in<br>The grave long since with a maiden white —<br>She will not taunt you, the Red-Tressed Maiden<br>Dressed in her mantle of starless night.<br>With fingers potent as rich wine chosen<br>From dusty cellars where years lie dead,<br>She melts the ice in the veins long frozen,<br>The blood runs chainless, and young and red.<br>Her ears have hearkened the joyous laughter,<br>Man-made, maid-lifted through years and years<br>To frescoed dome and to smoky rafter,<br>And tears and tears and ceaseless tears.<br>Old as the world, and some say older,<br>Is she, and yet she is young and sweet:<br>She heard the story the Cave-man told her,<br>When hearts were bolder and ruder their beat.<br>No tale so trifling but she will listen,<br>The long day ended, the day's toil done;<br>Then wheresoever her great eyes glisten<br>An ancient battle is fought and won.<br>She is ready to hearken to some chance roamer,<br>A lyre on his shoulder, a lilt on his tongue,<br>As she was of old to the blind-eyed Homer<br>Who sang high strains when the world was young.<br>On winter nights, when the roads are cheerless<br>And west winds under a frosty moon,<br>She paints us Summer in colours peerless<br>And the broad gold charm of a tropic noon.<br>On summer evenings, in sylvan places<br>(The picnic over and stars in the skies),<br>She heightens the blush on sun-kissed faces<br>And deepens the dream in dear young eyes.<br>And who is the Maiden? When Night is about you,<br>Pile high dry leaves and dead wood, and so<br>Make a light for the darkness within and without you . . .<br>And now do you see her — and now do you know?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Roderic+Quinn">Roderic Quinn</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509180" data-title="The Red-Tressed Maiden de Roderic Quinn" data-description="RED she is in a robe of sable,
Rosy with pictures and tales to tell:
She is a fairy, and yet no fable,
Weaving the dreams that we love so well.
Out in the dark where the night-winds hurry
And dead leaves carpet the silent bush,
She has a charm for..."></div>
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