Classic Poem

You are an amethyst to me,
Beating dark slabs of purple
Against quiet smoothnesses of heliotrope,
Sending the wine-colour of torches
Rattling up against an avalanche of pale windy leaves.

You enter my heart as twilight
Seeping softly among the ghosts of beeches
In a glade where the last light cleaves for an instant upon the swung lash of a waterfall.
You oversweep me with the splendid flashing of your darkness,
And my flowers are tinted with the light of your thin grey moon.

An amethyst garden you are to me,
And in your sands I write my poems,
And plant my heart for you in deathless yew trees
That their leaves may shield you from the falling snow.

Open your purple palaces for my entertainment,
Welcome my feet upon your polished floors,
And keep in your brazier always
One red hot coal;
For I come at the times which suit me,
Morning or evening,
And I am cold when I come down the long alleys to you.
Clang the doors against the multitude who would follow me.
Is not this my chamber where I would sleep?