© Lew Sarrett
She walks alone against the dusky sky,
With something of the manner of a queen--
Her gesturing peaks, imperious and high;
Her snowy brow, serene.
Under her feet, a tapestry of pine;
Veiling her marble figure, purple haze,
Draped with a scarf of clouds at timber-line,
In a billowy silken maze.
And in the moonlight a spangled necklace shakes
And shimmers silver-blue upon her shoulders--
A fragile thread of crinkling brooks and lakes
In the glimmering ice and boulders.
Among her eagle-winged and starry host
Of lovers, like an austere virgin nun,
She broods--yielding a moment at the most,
To the lips of the amorous sun.