She of the Dew-Fall Dreams
I.
Where twilight weaves its golden seam,
She lies enwrapped in meadow’s dream—
A sylph amid the whispering green,
Fairer than any eye hath seen.
II.
Her gaze, a dusk of violet skies,
Soft fire burns in ocean eyes.
The stars, methinks, descend in grace
To light the lamp that is her face.
III.
What spirit, born of hill and stream,
Hath carved her from the moon’s pale beam?
She breathes as though the woodland sighs
Within her breast where calmness lies.
IV.
O! In her locks the sun is curled,
As if to warm this mortal world;
The wind doth hush to hear her hum,
A song of love that shall not come.
V.
Her cheek with roses lightly glows,
A bloom that only Heaven knows.
And lips of berry, ripe and red—
What sweeter words have e’er been said?
VI.
She lies upon the emerald floor,
Where Time forgets to turn once more;
The hours halt to see her rest,
The meadow’s heartbeat in her breast.
VII.
The lark above refrains its call,
For silence suits this nymph-like thrall.
She is the hush ‘twixt night and morn,
Where lovers dream and gods are born.
VIII.
Her fingers press the trembling earth,
As though she feels its ageless worth—
Each blade of grass, a green confide,
That sways and sings with earnest pride.
IX.
O tell me, Muse, what fate divine
Hath bound her soul and made it mine?
Though ne’er we spoke in mortal tongue,
I’ve known her since the world was young.
X.
The flowers bow as she lies near,
And scent the winds for her to hear.
They whisper tales of ancient lore,
Of elfin love on starlit shore.
XI.
Her blouse, adorned with woven vine,
Betrays the craft of hands divine.
The threads do dance in black and white,
A runic spell in morning light.
XII.
Two braids enframe her wistful guise,
As twilight clings to her soft sighs.
O! Maid of dreams, dost thou not know
What flames within my spirit grow?
XIII.
She dwells ‘twixt Earth and Heaven’s span,
Beyond the thought of flame or man—
A creature made of mist and tone,
Of dreams the waking world disown.
XIV.
Yet in her eyes, a mortal gleam—
A wistful trace of some lost dream.
She longs, perhaps, as I do here,
For whispers only love can hear.
XV.
Thou art no shade, no passing gleam,
But substance of my sacred dream.
If fate should part us on the tide,
Let death itself my soul not hide.
XVI.
For I would ride the starry foam,
To chase her ‘cross the astral dome.
Her breath shall be my compass true,
My guide through seas of night and blue.
XVII.
And should the angels bar the gate,
I’d scale the moon’s own argent weight.
For what is Heaven if she’s not there?
A barren realm of lifeless air.
XVIII.
The grass bends low in her repose,
As if to guard what Heaven chose.
And I, unworthy though I be,
Shall ever bow on bended knee.
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XIX.
O tell me, Earth, with all thy voice,
Is she not more than mortal choice?
What soul could craft such gentle fire,
And not be born of god’s desire?
XX.
But hush—her eyes do rise to mine,
Like stars that tremble on the brine.
She sees me now! O, wondrous fate—
Let time be still, let breath abate!
XXI.
Her smile, a secret barely known,
A kiss of thought, a glance alone.
The heavens ring, the rivers roll—
Her gaze unknots my tethered soul.
XXII.
O sweet enchantress, meadow-born,
Thy presence shames the blush of morn!
Stay in this hour, my fair delight—
A dream enwoven in the light.
XXIII.
Yet should she rise and drift away,
To chase the wind, to greet the day—
I’ll hold her in this verse I write,
My muse, my dawn, my soul’s own night.
XXIV.
So linger now, O dream so fair,
Upon this earth, this field, this air.
For thou hast stilled my spirit’s flight—
And crowned the dusk with endless light.
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