Persian Miniature

By MARTHA BACON
Now sleep the children
In the dark and golden
Wing-spread of evening.
Not loaf nor leavening,
Not wine nor muscat
Nor pomegranate,
Shall be my burden
When I quit the garden.
In desert places
Where bloom no roses
I shall stop to ponder
My love, his splendor.
I shall think on his wary
Hand and the fury
That lives in his thighs.
I shall speak his praise.
Strong breath, inform him,
Brave heart, confirm him,
Red blood, burn brightly
In his veins, and sweetly
In my ears forever
Be the sound of my lover.
In the silver morning
When doves are moaning,
When the air is pearly,
And dew like barley
Lies on green hedges,
Before the midges
Shall start their shrilling,
At the cockerel’s calling,
I shall seek his portal
With a sprig of myrtle.
“Who knocks now?”
“Not I, but thou.
Open thy gates.
Thy soul awaits.”