Ermengarde

Queen of the Courts of Love, she sleeps; one arm Pillowing her raven hair, as Dawn might Night, Or Day kiss Dusk; or Darkness, starry warm, Be gathered of her sister, rosy Light.

Pale from the purple of the damask cloth One hand hangs, as a lily-bloom might, lone Above a bed of poppies; or a moth Might softly hover by a rose full-blown.

Heraldic, rich, the costly coverings Sweep, fall'n in folds, pushed partly from her breast; As through storm-broken clouds the full moon springs, From these one orb of her pure bosom pressed.

She sleeps: and where the moteless moonbeams sink Through blazoned panes--an immaterial snow-- In wide, white jets, the lion-fur seems to drink With tawny jaws their wasted, winey glow.

Light-lidded sleep and holy dreams are hers, Untouched of feverish sorrow or of care, Soft as the wind whose fragrant breathing stirs The moonbeam-tangled tresses of her hair.