I must have met her slowly wandering
Along a bushy stream, her locks breeze-tossed
With cheeks a pinkish rush, fair more than Spring,
And I, a woodsman dared to come across
This Lady lounging poised among the grass.
Her sunlit face wore off into a gloom
Beneath a tangled pine from which fresh scent
Grew drowsy like her Gaelic robe cast down
While handmaids trailed nearby,with wreaths abloom
Behind the rays, deep was her discontent.
In mild chatters, I heard a lonely spill
Bethroed to a Lord she was not inclined
To offer hand, stirring blue eyes, wind-chilled
And watching her from lilies on the vine,
Her beauty sad cascading through mountains,
More sad than black,or all that black can pour.
Adored privately, I longed to hold her arms
Where splashed the murmur of this my heart's veins
With all her loveliness did she implore,
As calm sorrow drained of her woodland charms.
Isaiah Zerbst: George D. Leslie's Contest
Written by nette onclaaud