The Lady Of The Lake

In the flickering dusk of the cold forest’s keep
Midst the leaves and the brush where the river runs deep
A rivulet barren as all the world’s sands
Branches off and expands
In ribands and bands
To a lake wherein which a pale maid lies asleep.

Soft gold is the hair that so limpidly flows
Round in circles that dip and as quickly compose
Into icy-tight locks by the white, leaden tips
Of her fingers and lips
And her slim, girlish hips
Bound in sodden silk swaths of frost-coloured bows.

A garland of blooms—wilted snow in her grasp—
Tries in vain—inch by inch—to withdraw from her clasp
And struggles and strains till on frigid mouth plants
A slight kiss by mischance
And continues entranced
In so forward a fashion she surely ought gasp—

But nothing escapes from those lips—not a sound—
Not the cry of offense that she ought to expound
As only befits a fair maiden subdued
By a blossom imbued
With a lover’s bright food—
Though her lover she left when with flowers she drowned.