The Beckoner
She rises at night with her robes all around her,
Rises just like you rise from sleep,
In a fairness of heavy unbound tresses
So rich they could make you weep.
The moon is a pale and a horrified witness,
The cypresses moan as they sway in the dark,
And even the grasses lament in whispers
As she surveys the park.
Then she is away, and soon we will see her
Reaching her hand like an alba rose
To tap, so lightly, upon our window,
Holding an elegant pose.
Beauty is deadly – how well we know it –
Her cheeks have a treacherous living stain,
And we will kiss them, and come to her beckoning,
And never return again.
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