How beautiful it is, when waking,
To find one's lover at one's side,
The delicate slow light is breaking
Irresolutely through the wide
Bay windows of their bedroom, falling
On Liz's hair, and John's recalling
How last night she untied it, how
It flowed between his hands, but now
She lies asleep, unswiftly breathing;
Her thoughts are not with him, her dreams
Traverse the solitary streams
Of inward lands, yet her hair, wreathing
The pillow in a mesh of light,
Returns to him the fugitive night.
|