Classic Poem

I had dreamed that Love would come under broad pennons of gold,
With rumbling of ponderous drums and conches braying,
Straying of crimson,
Bickering of banners blown to vermilion and gold,
With brown-burnt faces under barbaric turbans,
And a tumult of hoofs upon stony pavements.

And Love has come . . .
But quietly as a girl who walks
With bare feet over the warm grass
In a night of moths and roses.