ONCE I CAME UPON A PAINTING
of a maiden, blind, decaying
swathed in pallid silk and wreathed in
flowers from a foreign grove.
So pitiful and pale appeared she
not a word was uttered in the
minutes, hours or days I sat with
her beside the crackling stove.
My mind was led astray to wonder
as I nodded off to slumber,
were her clouded eyes to open
would she gaze upon me too?
In vain I looked for an engraving
on the gilded frame encasing
her, whose name was left unspoken
yet my queries only grew.
FROM WHICH COUNTRY AND WHICH TOWN
WOULD HAIL A GIRL IN SCARLET CROWN?
AS ABOVE AND SO BELOW,
WHERE DO THOSE SCARLET FLOWERS GROW?
Suddenly, with startling temper
Strange new flame now spread from ember
like hellfire, I remember
cast the wooden shack aglow.
Through the haze of oddly fragrant
smoke I saw the portrait vacant
and the witch on yellowed canvas
stood and turned to look at me.
Seeing senseless things so clearly
childlike terror soon had grasped me
That I had thought dead was merely—
DREAMING OF OLD STARS, AWAITING
FOR SOME LONG FORGOTTEN GREAT THING
FOR A SAINTED LIMB RECLAIMING
ALL THAT IS, HAS BEEN, AND WILL BE
SWAYING DEAD WHEREIN IT SENT THEE
SINKING IN THE LAKE OF DEMHE.
Where the silver corpse-bells ring
with flowers tied in golden string
On that cloudy inland shore
MY SOUL SHALL LAY FOREVERMORE.