Forward she leans, with hollowing back, stock-still,
Her white weed-bathed knees are shut together,
Her silky coat is sheeny, like a hill
Gem-fleeced at morn, so brilliant is the weather.
Her nostril glistens; and her wet black eye
Her lids half-meshing shelter from the sky.┬░

Her finger-long new horns are capp'd with black;
In hollows of her form the shadow clings;
Her milk-white throat and folded dew-lap slack
Are still; her neck is creased in close-ply rings;
Her hue's a various brown with creamy lakes,┬░
Like a cupp'd chestnut damask'd with dark breaks.

Backward are laid her pretty black-fleeced ears;
The feathery knot of locks upon her head┬░
Plays to the breeze; where now are fled her fears,
Her jailor with his vigil-organ dead?┬░
Morn does not now new-basilisk his stare,┬░
Nor night is blown with flame-rings everywhere.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.