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Rose and Alice,
Oh, the pretty lassies,
With their mouths like a calice
And their hair a golden palace-
Through my heart like a lovely
Wind they blow.
Though I am black and not comely,
Though I am black as the darkest trees,
I have swarms of gold that will fly
Like honey-bees,
By the rivers of the sun
I will feed my words
Until they skip like those fleeced lambs
The waterfalls, and the rivers
(Horned rams),
Then for all my darkness I shall be
The peacefulness of a lovely tree-
A tree wherein the golden birds
Are singing in the darkest branches, oh!
Edith Sitwell |