He came in silvern armour, trimmed with black-A lover come from legends long ago-With silver spurs and silken plumes a-blow,
And flashing sword caught fast and buckled back In a craven sheath of Tamarack.
He came with footsteps beautifully slow, And spoke in voice meticulously low.
He came and romance followed his track….
I did not ask his name-I thought him Love; I did not care to see his hidden face.
All life seemed born in my intaken breath; All thought seemed flown like some forgotten dove.
He bent to kiss and raised his visor’s lace…
All eager-lipped I kissed the mouth of Death.
Some things are very dear to me-Such things as flowers bathed by rain
Or patterns traced upon the sea Or crocuses where snow has lain…
The iridescence of a gem, The moon’s cool opalescent light,
Azaleas and the scent of them, And honeysuckles in the night.
And many sounds are also dear-Like winds that sing among the trees
Or crickets calling from the weir Or Negroes humming melodies.
But dearer far than all surmise Are sudden tear-drops in your eyes….
Reference: Gwendolyn Bennett
Category: Love, Sonnet,
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