ELLEN, when we walked in that turquoise night, Smouldering in frosty, yellow stars, you were Like Sargent's Dancer glamorous in a stir Of shadowing. . . . A nervous bit of white With an unearthly glow upon your face. . . A sketchy background. . . there, a dreamy hill, And, here, a wavering rim of purple space -- O what a study for a master's skill! If Keats were here, I wonder, would he mumble, "The universal tinge of sober gold?" O he would be so tender, strange, and humble, So thrilled with beauty stars would move and stumble Into his faltering words for him to mold To gorgeous torsos, statues warmly cold! |