The Princess

The stone-grey roses by the desert's rim     Are soft-edged shadows on the moonlit sand,     Grey are the broken walls of Khangavar,     That haunt of nightingales, whose voices are     Fountains that bubble in the dream-soft Moon.     Shall the Gazelles with moonbeam pale bright feet     Entering the vanished gardens sniff the air -     Some scent may linger of that ancient time,     Musician's song, or poet's passionate rhyme,     The Princess dead, still wandering love-sick there.     A Princess pale and cold as mountain snow,     In cool, dark chambers sheltered from the sun,     With long dark lashes and small delicate hands:     All Persia sighed to kiss her small red mouth     Until they buried her in shifting sand.     And the Gazelles shall flit by in the Moon     And never shake the frail Tree's lightest leaves,     And moonlight roses perfume the pale Dawn     Until the scarlet life that left her lips     Gathers its shattered beauty in the sky.