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The Springbok
She has the tools to draw you in,
without such tricks as flesh or skin,
perfect orbs that stun unknown:
eyes that spoke, to me alone.
Every feeling would they betray,
want and hatred as clear as day,
love and need given full show,
fear and woe when she was low.
Never shall I again receive
from her the look that makes doubt leave,
or the glance to still my heart:
now are we too far apart.
In my arrogance, I can see
that her face darkened without me.
The eyes that once shone our way
are now downturned, without play.
What I would do to get once more
those lights to open my soul's door.
They will not though, through my fault.
Yet, my yearnings never halt.
Copyright ©
Allan Quatermain
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