In the Amber Grove
Her Lydian wrist,
Dappled rose and brown,
Fraught with flaxen hairs
That catch the sunrays,
Reaches out to touch
The golden bough’s leaf.
Closed eyes and sighing.
Duchess in Tempera
Speak of her heritage: she sat serene
Upon daybed, surrounded by suitors
That she entertained, painted tempera
Upon a canvasse by portrait-maker;
A near-woman with a presence-shimmer:
All stepped into her fulgence: one-sided.
To carry her name into future-world:
Duchess painted in a golden dream.
Resting terra verde: ἁγνεία dreams,
Sylvan, vision of sacrificial embers,
Aeternal duchess of the amber grove,
Everydying yet preserved she slumbers.
A Match of Squares
The duchess smiles: elliptic,
A coy fortune:
A Vain Shadow
In prone and fitful moon’s tide, I visit
Her German palace: wander empty halls
Where her silence falls, complete echo’s lack;
Gracing the walls, holding silver chalice,
Her likeness stares back; but yet my duchess
Is absent: desolate are the ribbed vaults.
In the night, wind cries from the firmament,
The creaking boughs despair; and I can find
No consolate sight of my beauty’s host,
Nor her voice; nor her breath; nor her ghost.
She Turns to Say Farewell
Morning’s blurry haze
Brought day’s sight afore
Nemi’s mirrored banks;
Gazed on from the trees
At the lake’s yawning edge:
Duchess wets her clothes,
Which start to glitter
Sanguine rose and gold;
She turns back to look—
Her amber eyes hold
A single, fated tear.