(After Anna, Comtesse de Noailles 1876 -1933)
The slender boughs of willows, gently bend
And sleep as day is drawing to an end.
Leaf shadows make obscure the rose-brick wall,
And fountains, overflowing, rise and fall.
Now orange blossoms are once more immersed
In quenching and appeasing long day's thirst.
The quiet house breathes in declining light,
Then opens like a flower to the night.
Your voice keeps calling out across the hill,
And everything is lovely, dark, and still.
© Alice Park 1998
Published in The Formalist Volume 9, Issue 2, 1998
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