Dream - Love
dream - love
his brush
swept
through
the canvas
the skill
of a ballet
dancer
round, twirl,
trailing
my bodice
wave
and wave
of water
colours
a world
livened up
me taking
shape
wave
after wave
of his strokes
i sat
nakedly
amused
at
those
wild strokes
seeking
ways to
preserve
me
for posterity
inspired by
Dream-Love
Young Love lies sleeping
In May-time of the year,
Among the lilies,
Lapped in the tender light:
White lambs come grazing,
White doves come building there:
And round about him
The May-bushes are white.
Soft moss the pillow
For oh, a softer cheek;
Broad leaves cast shadow
Upon the heavy eyes:
There wind and waters
Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
There twilight lingers
The longest in the skies.
Young Love lies dreaming;
But who shall tell the dream?
A perfect sunlight
On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence,
Or song of cherished lips.
Burn odours round him
To fill the drowsy air;
Weave silent dances
Around him to and fro;
For oh, in waking
The sights are no so fair,
And song and silence
Are not like these below.
Young Love lies dreaming
Till summer days are gone, -
Dreaming and drowsing
Away to perfect sleep:
He sees the beauty
Sun hath not looked upon,
And tastes the fountain
Unutterably deep.
Him perfect music
Doth hush unto his rest,
And through the pauses
The perfect silence calms:
Oh, poor the voices
Of earth from east to west,
And poor earth's stillness
Between her stately palms.
Young Love lies drowsing
Away to poppied death;
Cool shadows deepen
Across the sleeping face:
So fails the summer
With warm delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
To give us in its place?
Draw close the curtains
Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
With fading fingers sere:
Here first the violets
Perhaps with bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
Return to nestle here.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Dream-Love
Young Love lies sleeping
In May-time of the year,
Among the lilies,
Lapped in the tender light:
White lambs come grazing,
White doves come building there:
And round about him
The May-bushes are white.
Soft moss the pillow
For oh, a softer cheek;
Broad leaves cast shadow
Upon the heavy eyes:
There wind and waters
Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
There twilight lingers
The longest in the skies.
Young Love lies dreaming;
But who shall tell the dream?
A perfect sunlight
On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence,
Or song of cherished lips.
Burn odours round him
To fill the drowsy air;
Weave silent dances
Around him to and fro;
For oh, in waking
The sights are no so fair,
And song and silence
Are not like these below.
Young Love lies dreaming
Till summer days are gone, -
Dreaming and drowsing
Away to perfect sleep:
He sees the beauty
Sun hath not looked upon,
And tastes the fountain
Unutterably deep.
Him perfect music
Doth hush unto his rest,
And through the pauses
The perfect silence calms:
Oh, poor the voices
Of earth from east to west,
And poor earth's stillness
Between her stately palms.
Young Love lies drowsing
Away to poppied death;
Cool shadows deepen
Across the sleeping face:
So fails the summer
With warm delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
To give us in its place?
Draw close the curtains
Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
With fading fingers sere:
Here first the violets
Perhaps with bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
Return to nestle here.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dream-Love
Young Love lies sleeping
In May-time of the year,
Among the lilies,
Lapped in the tender light:
White lambs come grazing,
White doves come building there:
And round about him
The May-bushes are white.
Soft moss the pillow
For oh, a softer cheek;
Broad leaves cast shadow
Upon the heavy eyes:
There winds and waters
Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
There twilight lingers
The longest in the skies.
Young Love lies dreaming;
But who shall tell the dream?
A perfect sunlight
On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence,
Or song of cherished lips.
Burn odours round him
To fill the drowsy air;
Weave silent dances
Around him to and fro;
For oh, in waking
The sights are not so fair,
And song and silence
Are not like these below.
Young Love lies dreaming
Till summer days are gone,—
Dreaming and drowsing
Away to perfect sleep:
He sees the beauty
Sun hath not looked upon,
And tastes the fountain
Unutterably deep.
Him perfect music
Doth hush unto his rest,
And through the pauses
The perfect silence calms:
Oh, poor the voices
Of earth from east to west,
And poor earth's stillness
Between her stately palms.
Young Love lies drowsing
Away to poppied death;
Cool shadows deepen
Across the sleeping face:
So fails the summer
With warm, delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
To give us in its place?
Draw close the curtains
Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
With fading fingers sere:
Here the first violets
Perhaps will bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
Return to nestle here.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The speech of silence
The solemn Sea of Silence lies between us;
I know thou livest, and them lovest me,
And yet I wish some white ship would come sailing
Across the ocean, beating word from thee.
The dead calm awes me with its awful stillness.
No anxious doubts or fears disturb my breast;
I only ask some little wave of language,
To stir this vast infinitude of rest.
I am oppressed with this great sense of loving;
So much I give, so much receive from thee;
Like subtle incense, rising from a censer,
So floats the fragrance of thy love round me.
All speech is poor, and written words unmeaning;
Yet such I ask, blown hither by some wind,
To give relief to this too perfect knowledge,
The Silence so impresses on my mind.
How poor the love that needeth word or message,
To banish doubt or nourish tenderness!
I ask them but to temper love's convictions
The Silence all too fully doth express.
Too deep the language which the spirit utters;
Too vast the knowledge which my soul hath stirred.
Send some white ship across the Sea of Silence,
And interrupt its utterance with a word.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Dreaming A Dream
Dreaming of a dream
A dream were skies are blue oceans are clear and life scared
Dreaming of dream
were a dream of peace and love rule and hate is a myth
Dreaming of a dream
having food for all, and all not thirst
Dreaming of a dream
Dreaming of a dream
were skin color is just that, us all just one
Dreaming a dream
no pain, war the only true crime
Dreaming a dream
were the rich give, and the poor have a chance
Dreaming a dream
Dreaming a dream
were we can look on a future of happiness'
Dreaming a dream
were the children are the future
Dream a dream
were lives are fullfilled, and getting old is not a bad thing
Dreaming a dream
World wonderess, happy, clean, perfect
Dreaming a dream
poem by Vincent Armone
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Evening
WHEN the white iris folds the drowsing bee,
When the first cricket wakes
The fairy hosts of his enchanted brakes,
When the dark moth has sought the lilac tree,
And the young stars, like jasmine of the skies,
Are opening on the silence, Lord, there lies
Dew on Thy rose and dream upon mine eyes.
Lovely the day, when life is robed in splendour,
Walking the ways of God and strong with wine,
But the pale eve is wonderful and tender,
And night is more divine.
Fold my faint olives from their shimmering plain,
O shadow of sweet darkness fringed with rain.
Give me to night again.
Give me to day no more. I have bethought me
Silence is more than laughter, sleep than tears.
Sleep like a lover faithfully hath sought me
Down the enduring years.
Where stray the first white fatlings of the fold,
Where the Lent-lily droops her earlier gold
Sleep waits me as of old.
Grant me sweet sleep, for light is unavailing
When patient eyes grow weary of the day.
Young lambs creep close and tender wings are failing,
And I grow tired as they.
Light as the long wave leaves the lonely shore,
Our boughs have lost the bloom that morning bore.
Give me to day no more.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Perfect Part 2
I don’t need perfect cloth
I don’t need perfect hair
What I need is a confidence
I don’t need perfect score
I don’t need perfect job
What I need is a support
I don’t need perfect word
I don’t need perfect dream
What I need is a chance
I don’t need perfect agreement
I don’t need perfect control
What I need is a solution
I don’t need perfect holiday
I don’t need perfect memories
What I need is a peace of mind
I don’t need perfect home
I don’t need perfect family
What I need is a comfort
I don’t need perfect love
I don’t need perfect life
What I need is an understanding
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Midnight Canto
Young, you weep the falling moon,
Luminous willow, beside the black river
Where I drown in your pale ghost,
Each small wave, the eyelid
Of a scattered rose, silvered by the light.
You are everything that time could steal
From me, brought back, an afterlife
I had not thought possible, a birth
Beyond the debt I owe to anyone,
These hauntings, these crucial exorcisms.
In me, wheat, honey, white gold,
Your sad summer made mystery
By night, in me, when perfect solitude
Paints your face upon its raven waters
And the watching stars discuss conspiracies
Of love that terrify the sleepless hour.
Servant of the dream that spins the world
Through the languishing ages into yesterday,
I am resurrected like the wind to comb
Your hair, and play upon your cheek,
A memory of fire, to let you know,
Though alone, I am near and now,
The music of your shining leaves,
Companion, sage, fool, or poet,
The soft, mad music of your shining leaves.
poem by Patrick White
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Perfect Dream
To dream the perfect dream
would be of blue skies,
and no tears to cry
To dream the perfect dream
would be of love, and understanding,
and not of a world that's so demanding
To dream a perfect dream
would be of peace perfect peace
with no axes to grind
no fears of deadlines
no wars to fight, so let me dream and take flight.
poem by Christina Henry
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Long Ago And Far Away
long ago a young man sits
and plays his waiting game
but things are not the same it seems
as in such tender dreams
slowly passing sailing ships
on sunday afternoon
like the people on the moon i've seen
are things not meant to be
where do those golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
why is this song so sad
(why is this song so sad)
dreaming the dreams i dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams i dream)
loving the love i love
to love is just a word i've heard
when things are being said
stories my poor head has told me
can not stand the cold
and in between what might have been
and what has come to pass
are misbegotten guests alas
and bits of broken glass
where do your golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
why is the song i sing so sad
(why is this song so sad)
dreaming the dreams i dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams i dream)
loving the love i love
to love to love to love
where do your golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
why is the song i sing so sad
(why is this song so sad)
dreaming the dreams i dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams i dream)
loving the love i love
to love to love to love
whoa no no no no no
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Long Ago & Far Away
Long ago a young man sits
And plays his waiting game
But things are not the same it seems
As in such tender dreams
Slowly passing sailing ships
On sunday afternoon
Like the people on the moon Ive seen
Are things not meant to be
Where do those golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
Why is this song so sad
(why is this song so sad)
Dreaming the dreams I dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams I dream)
Loving the love I love
To love is just a word Ive heard
When things are being said
Stories my poor head has told me
Can not stand the cold
And in between what might have been
And what has come to pass
Are misbegotten guests alas
And bits of broken glass
Where do your golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
Why is the song I sing so sad
(why is this song so sad)
Dreaming the dreams I dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams I dream)
Loving the love I love
To love to love to love
Where do your golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
Why is the song I sing so sad
(why is this song so sad)
Dreaming the dreams I dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams I dream)
Loving the love I love
To love to love to love
Whoa no no no no no
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dreaming's Art
He could see
that she loved him;
no, more like Idol Worship.
'You' she said
'are the Man of my Dreams
my Prince Charming.
Everything you touch
turns to gold
including me.
I laid down my heart for you
hand pressed my soul for you,
danced round your Maypole
like a young girl in spring.
You populated my every dream;
you in my eyes-
could do no wrong or harm-
you were my dreams' dream.
He: said:
I see now my dear
this was Dangerous Praise
and Deadly Love
at least for me.
I felt in love too
but more with your
image of me,
not as I really was.
And so as not to disappoint
I pretended to believe
the image of me
dancing in your eyes
but in doing so
I participated in
the subterfuge;
creating someone
who was only a facsimile
of the real me
who
then
went into hiding
dreading to be discovered.
To you I was your hero-
the one to up-end every wrong
and we
busily,
both of us,
constructed
white picket fences
in the blue, blue sky.
She:
'I believed you were my superman,
you said so too.'
He:
'I said so because you seemed
to need me to be that fantasy,
and I had no heart to disappoint
that precious dream
you had of me.
She:
'But you did disappoint because I began
to see
that you were not superman
or perfect even.
He:
'And that disappointment in your eyes
was too much for me.
Too much for me to bear.
In time
resentment came
because why should I
live to be another's dream
even the dream of the one I love?
And you too
were not perfection's dream
you too in time
were revealed to me
as merely a woman
a person, not perfect,
not a dream.'
She:
And there we stood the both of us
pouring hurt and harm
on each other as human beings
preferring to cling to our perfect
dream scheme;
even as we came to understand
Misplaced Dreams are not dreams at all
but potential nightmares.
She looked at him,
with her deep, sad eyes
saying:
'Do you think you could love me
if my beauty fades
if my breasts succumb to gravity;
if other women to you
siren call?
He said 'Could you still love me
if in morning light
my paunchy eyes
and thick waist
become pronounced
and lumpy high?
So these two in fading light
allowed themselves
to contemplate
Irony's Twists
and the struggle between
what our dreams want
and who we really are;
so much at stake here
so little it takes
to merely
accept
that dreams are not real;
people are.
This is not to say
dreams must die.
Rather only dream
that dream
which constitutes Love’s Art
which comes with the words:
'I shall love you
til death do us part.'
That too
is a dream:
True,
True Love
imparts.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Song Of The Siren
Oh, I am the siren, the siren of the sea,
The sea, the wondrous sea, that lies forevermore before;
I stand a fairy shape upon the shadow of a cliff
Where the water's drowsy ripple laps the phantom of a shore,
And, oh, so fair, so fair am I, I draw all hearts to me,
For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
All the glory of my golden tresses gleams upon the air,
How it falls about my snowy shoulders, round and bare and white;
My lips are full of love as rounded grapes are full of wine,
And my eyes are large and languid, and full of dewy light;
Oh, I lure the idle landsmen many a league for love of me,
For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
Sometimes they press so near that my breath is on their cheek,
And their eager hands can almost touch the glowing bowl I bear,
They can see the beaded froth, the ruby glitter of the wine,
Then I slip from their embraces like a breath of summer air;
Oh, I lightly, lightly glide away, they come no nigher me,
For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
Sometimes I float along a-standing in a boat,
Before the ships becalmed, where dusky sailors stand,
And the helmsman drops his oar, and the lookout leaves his glass,
So I beckon them, and lure them, with the whiteness of my hand;
Oh, this the song I sing, well they listen unto me?
For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
Would you from toil and labor flee,
Oh float ye out on this wonderful sea,
From islands of spice the zephyrs blow,
Swaying the galleys to and fro;
Silken sails and a balmy breeze
Shall waft you unto a perfect ease.
Fold your hands and rest, and rest,
The sun sails on from the east to the west,
The days will come, and the days will go,
What good can man for his labor show
In passionless peace, come float with me
Over the waves of this wonderful sea.
Would you forget, oh sorrowful soul,
Come and drink of this golden bowl,
With jewelled poppies about the rim,
Drink of the wine that flushes its brim,
And drown all your haunting memories there,
Your woe and your weary care.
Oh, I am the siren, the siren of the sea,
The sea, the wondrous sea, that lies forevermore before;
Oh, the mystic music ripples, how they break in rosy spray,
But the crystal wave will mock them, they will reach it
nevermore,
For it glides away, I glide away, they come no nigher me,
For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
poem by Marietta Holley
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The Forsaken
I.
IT is the music of her native land,--
The airs she used to love in happier days;
The lute is struck by some young gentle hand,
To soothe her spirit with remember'd lays.
II.
But her sad heart is wandering from the notes,
Her ear is fill'd with an imagined strain;
Vainly the soften'd music round her floats,
The echo it awakes is all of pain!
III.
The echo it awakes, is of a voice
Which never more her weary heart shall cheer;
Fain would she banish it, but hath no choice,
Its vanish'd sound still haunts her shrinking ear,--
IV.
Still haunts her with its tones of joy and love,
Its memories of bitterness and wrong,
Bidding her thoughts thro' various changes rove,--
Welcomes, farewells, and snatches of wild song.
V.
Why bring her music? She had half forgot
How left, how lonely, how oppress'd she was;
Why, by these strains, recal her former lot,
The depth of all her suffering, and its cause?
VI.
Know ye not what a spell there is in sound?
Know ye not that the melody of words
Is nothing to the power that wanders round,
Giving vague language to harmonious chords?
VII.
Oh I keep ye silence! He hath sung to her,
And from that hour--(faint twilight, sweet and dim,
When the low breeze scarce made the branches stirs)--
Music hath been a memory of HIM!
VIII.
Chords which the wandering fingers scarcely touch
When they would seek for some forgotten song,--
Stray notes which have no certain meaning, such
As careless hands unthinkingly prolong,--
IX.
Come unto HER, fraught with a vivid dream
Of love, in all its wild and passionate strength,--
Of sunsets, glittering on the purple stream,--
Of shadows, deepening into twilight length,--
X.
Of gentle sounds, when the warm world lay hush'd
Beneath the soft breath of the evening air,--
Of hopes and fears, and expectations crush'd,
By one long certainty of blank despair!
XI.
Bear to the sick man's couch the fiery cup,
Pledged by wild feasters in their riotous hours,
And bid his parch'd lips drink the poison up,
As tho' its foam held cool refreshing powers,--
XII.
Lift some poor wounded wretch, whose writhing pain
Finds soothing only in an utter rest,
Forth in some rude-made litter, to regain
Strength for his limbs and vigour for his breast;--
XIII.
But soothe ye not that proud forsaken heart
With strains whose sweetness maddens as they fall;
Untroubled let her feverish soul depart--
Not long shall memory's power its might enthral;
XIV.
Not long,--tho' balmy be the summer's breath!
In the deep stillness of its golden light,
A shadowy spirit sits, whose name is DEATH,
And turns, what was all beauty, into blight;
XV.
And she, before whose sad and dreaming eye
Visions of by-gone days are sweeping on,
In her unfaded youth shall drooping die,
Shut from the glow of that Italian sun:
XVI.
Then let the organ's solemn notes prolong
Their glory round the silence of her grave,
Then let the choral voices swell in song
And echo thro' the chancel and the nave;
XVII.
For then her heart shall ache not at the sound,
Then the faint fever of her life shall cease
Silence, unbroken, calm, shall reign around,
And the long restless shall be laid at peace.
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Perfect World
In my perfect world
The sky is a perfect blue
The grass is a soft green
And together are me and you
In my perfect world
The sun is a perfect heat
No global warming
It would be a treat
In my perfect world
There would be no disease
The flowers would bloom everyday
And no one would cut down trees
In my perfect world
No one would be poor
The streets paved with gold
Silver for the floor
In my perfect world
Death would never come
Pain would go away
And no one would be dumb
In my perfect world
The government would not rule
We’d chose for ourselves
What we thought was cool
In my perfect world
Racism would not exist
Discrimination would be over
And nothing would end with fists
But then I remember
I can’t believe it’s true
But my world really is perfect
Because I spend it with you
A Distant Kind Of Love
A dove calls her mate in the moon
But a sea wind calls, go not to soon...
For the night is young in circles new
The waves are rolling deep and blue.
So' it is for you; the world was made
To lift your feathers above the wave!
So dip your wing tips in salt rock air
Brave a poles ivory stair; if you dare!
For it's here your true loves heart lies
Anchored beneath the lustrous skies
Wave over wave- wing on wing!
The dove white creature clung, curing...
Until the sun in past shadows flame
Up and blessed the birds dead name
For the night is young in circles new
The waves are rolling deep and blue.
Wave over wave- wing on wing!
That dove white creature sort to cling...
Curing... deeper and deeper
Rolling... deeper and deeper
The little dove flew
To the heart of the moon,
To that part of the moon,
That could be you...
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Simple Mind
There’s simple girl
With simple mind
She wants perfect love
But she finds it’s hard
To get a perfect guy
With a perfect job
Has a perfect house
Keeps a perfect dog
In a perfect time
And a perfect place
For a perfect happily ever after
So she change little
Of her simple mind
She still wants perfect love
She knows it’s hard
To get a perfect guy
With a perfect job
Has a perfect house
Keeps a perfect dog
In a perfect time
And a perfect place
For a perfect happily ever after
But at least she quite satisfied
With her simple mind
She doesn’t have perfect love
But she finds it’s hard to leave him
That has a good smile
Gets a desirable job
Builds a little home
Keeps a cheering dog
In unexpected moment
And unforgettable place
For hopefully happily ever after
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Life's Tragedy
i am water
swept by the wind
to become waves
i am a consciousness
swept by god
to become man
inundated by
waves of
trials and tribulations
swirling, crushing,
always rushing onward to shore
soldiers on field
advancing to claim
a piece of victory they
consider theirs
the sand a smooth plain
after each swipe of the waves
i leap on towards this survival
again and again
pondering over the meaning
of this breath, life, miracle,
a blank in my life
i beg god would fill out for me
those masterful footsteps
in my life
those guiding steps on
the beach after each lap of wave
that i am still waiting for
inspired by
Life's Tragedy
It may be misery not to sing at all,
And to go silent through the brimming day;
It may be misery never to be loved,
But deeper griefs than these beset the way.
To sing the perfect song,
And by a half-tone lost the key,
There the potent sorrow, there the grief,
The pale, sad staring of Life's Tragedy.
To have come near to the perfect love,
Not the hot passion of untempered youth,
But that which lies aside its vanity,
And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth.
This, this indeed is to be accursed,
For if we mortals love, or if we sing,
We count our joys not by what we have,
But by what kept us from that perfect thing.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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In The Garden IV: The Singer
"THAT was the thrush's last good-night," I thought,
And heard the soft descent of summer rain
In the droop'd garden leaves; but hush! again
The perfect iterance,--freer than unsought
Odours of violets dim in woodland ways,
Deeper than coiled waters laid a-dream
Below moss'd ledges of a shadowy stream,
And faultless as blown roses in June days.
Full-throat'd singer! art thou thus anew
Voiceful to hear how round thyself alone
The enriched silence drops for thy delight
More soft than snow, more sweet than honey-dew?
Now cease: the last faint western streak is gone,
Stir not the blissful quiet of the night.
poem by Edward Dowden
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Your Perfect Little Girl...
Your perfect little girl dropped a grade on her report card.
Your perfect little girl yelled at you last night.
Your perfect little girl painted her nails black.
Your perfect little girl lied to you all her life.
Your perfect little girl cries herself to sleep.
Your perfect little girl slits her wrists till she bleeds.
Your perfect little girl hates you.
Your perfect little girl hates herself.
Your perfect little girl has given up on life.
Your perfect little girl had a tantrum today.
Your perfect little girl has her head in the toilet after dinner.
Your perfect little girl wants to run away.
Your perfect little girl hasn't let you dry her tears.
Your perfect little girl disobeyed you.
Your perfect little girl hates the world.
Your perfect little girl is hated by the world.
Your perfect little girl is very unhappy.
Your perfect little girl tried to commit suicide.
Your perfect little girl became a disgrace.
Your perfect little girl keeps alot of secrets.
Your perfect little girl deals with everything on her own
Your perfect little girl had to grow up too fast.
Your perfect little girl is on the edge of breakdown.
Your perfect little girl just isn't so perfect anymore.
poem by Gabriela Valoy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love Sonnet XXIX
Dearest, there is no part of us, but air
And earth are counterparts. Your fragrant eyes
Touching my own, some essence of the skies
Instil therein, and all your warm, brown hair
Smells of the sun’s slow passion, fine and fair.
I cannot touch your hands but I surprise
Some element of summer; and the sighs
Of stars from your red lips I seem to share.
O Love…Love…Love…Dearer than God to me.
Earth of the earth are we and light of light.
God-born, God-breathing, all our scented souls
In Death will glow, gladdening eternity.
So give me love…all love…this perfect night
As round our naked limbs its full fire rolls.
poem by Zora Bernice May Cross
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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