by William Faulkner
The dawn herself could not more beauty wear
Than you 'mid other women crowned in grace,
Nor have the sages known a fairer face
Than yours, gold-shadowed by your bright sweet hair.
Than you does Venus seem less heavenly fair;
The twilit hidden stillness of your eyes,
And throat, a singing bridge of still replies,
A slender bridge, yet all dreams hover there.
I could have turned unmoved from Helen's brow,
Who found no beauty in their Beatrice;
Their Thais seemed less lovely then as now,
Though some had bartered Athens for her kiss.
For down Time's arras, faint and fair and far,
Your face still beckons like a lonely star.
Last updated October 15, 2022