The Maiden of Tlascala
A ROMANCE OF THE GOLDEN AGE OF TEZOUCO .
W HITE-LIMBED and quiet, by her nightly tomb
Sat the young Day, new-risen; at her feet,
Wrapt loose together, lay the burial clouds;
And on her forehead, like the unsteady crown
Of a late winged immortal, flamed the sun.
All seasons have their beauty: drowsy Noon,
Winking along the hilltops lazily;
And fiery sandaled Eve, that bards of eld,
Writing their sweet rhymes on the aloe leaves,
Paused reverently to worship, as she went,
Like a worn gleaner, with a sheaf of corn
Pressed to her bosom, lessening, down the west;
And thou, dusk huntress! through whose heavy locks
Shimmer the icy arrows of the stars —
About whose solemn brow once blinded Faith
Wound the red shadows of the carnival,
Till o'er its flower-crowned holocaust waxed pale.
W HITE-LIMBED and quiet, by her nightly tomb
Sat the young Day, new-risen; at her feet,
Wrapt loose together, lay the burial clouds;
And on her forehead, like the unsteady crown
Of a late winged immortal, flamed the sun.
All seasons have their beauty: drowsy Noon,
Winking along the hilltops lazily;
And fiery sandaled Eve, that bards of eld,
Writing their sweet rhymes on the aloe leaves,
Paused reverently to worship, as she went,
Like a worn gleaner, with a sheaf of corn
Pressed to her bosom, lessening, down the west;
And thou, dusk huntress! through whose heavy locks
Shimmer the icy arrows of the stars —
About whose solemn brow once blinded Faith
Wound the red shadows of the carnival,
Till o'er its flower-crowned holocaust waxed pale.
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