SHE—She—Who is this She but my creation, Dream of my waking, nightmare of my dark? Her radiance is the corpse-light of a stark Skeleton red-robed; her voice the lamentation Of hireling mourners whining tribulation; But in dawn's happier hour like the keen lark, Stare, thrush and linnet, singing on though none mark The wings and notes of earth's unearthly nation. She is the extreme of maddest hope and hate, And fashioned wildly by the reinless mind, Nourished by thoughts of love and fears of fate, With features past my wit or will to alter, Shy as my thought, as my desire so blind, With hands stretched out—and feet that stray and falter. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LINCOLN TRIUMPHANT by EDWIN MARKHAM IN THE OLD THEATRE, FIESOLE by THOMAS HARDY THE TWINS by HENRY SAMBROOKE LEIGH ON THE SLAIN AT CHICKAMAUGA by HERMAN MELVILLE SONNET: 45 by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY IMITATIONS OF HORACE: ODE IV, 1 by ALEXANDER POPE TO A LADY TO ANSWER DIRECTLY WITH YEA OR NAY by THOMAS WYATT |