NOCTURNE:
IN PROVENCE
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THE
blue night, like an angel, came into the room,—
Came through the open window from the silent sky
Down trellised stairs of moonlight into the dear
room
As if a whisper breathed of some divine one nigh.
The nightingales, like brooks of song in Paradise, |
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Gurgled
their serene rapture to the silent sky—
Like springs of laughter bubbling up in Paradise,
The serene nightingales along the riverside
Purled low in every tree their star-cool melodies
Of joy—in every tree along the riverside. |
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Did the vain garments melt in music from your side?
Did you rise from them as a lily flowers i’
the air?
—But you were there before me like the Night’s
own bride—
I dared not call you mine. So still and tall you
were,
I never dreamed that you were mine—I never
dreamed |
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I loved
you—I forgot I loved you. You were air
And music, and the shadows that you stood in, seemed
Like priests that keep their sombre vigil round
a shrine—
Like sombre priests that watch about a glorious
shrine.
And then you stepped into the moonlight and laid
bare
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The
wonder of your body to the night, and stood
With all the stars of heaven looking at you there,
As simply as a saint might bare her soul to God—
As simply as a saint might bathe in lakes of prayer—
Stood with the holy moonlight falling on you there |
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Until
I thought that in a glory unaware
I had seen a soul stand forth and bare itself to
God—
A saintly soul lay bare its innocence to God. |
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