The Nineteenth Century

She walks the night with soft unsandalled tread,

And shrinks from morning, as from secret shame:

A sapphire diadem adorns her head;

And in her heart resides a rose of flame:


Her fingers, fashioned for celestial lyres

Or for the beads of love's sweet rosary;

Her eyes, composed of cool immortal fires;

Her words, arrayed in star-bright purity.


Bless my solitude, lucent muse of night!

(Prays the poet in dimly cloistered room) --

Obliterate the vestiges of fright!

Rescue my soul from bleak enduring gloom!


Will she, incarnate moon, dream-petalled flower,

Consent to consecrate his darkest hour?

Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 245 times
Written on 2017-07-15 at 01:23

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Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
Beautifully written. I wonder what the answer is? It was a century of prose and hidden feelings and you bring it to life so well.

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
The rhymes, the choice of words, even certain images, such a "secret shame," reflect that century. In this century, one has neither secrets nor shame.

one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
Nineteenth century, but:

"(Prays the poet [and poetess] in dimly cloistered room) --"

is timeless, as is the sonnet form.

ken d williams The PoetBay support member heart!
Bravo, Tom.