Author Ernest Walsh AMBER Oil from which rises, softer than weariness from a sleeping girl, dancers, silent, exquisite, pale, so pale the eye sees through beyond to their tents, white rows planted in the shade of night. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments