TWELFTH JULY

It was on the twelfth day of July,

Beneath a warm, indolent sky,

In the highlands, of stone and scree

I saw her, reserved and dreamy.

The wild indigo bowed , only to reveal

A faint countenance, under the Sun’s seal

Was it her indifference, or her sorrow,

That she held within, I didn’t know.

Yet she glistened, though flickering

Even the Sun seemed curtailing,

And the meadow, the bird and the hill

No different from me, stood utterly still.

For once, there seemed no fret, loss or pain

That surpassed this heavenly strain.

The light ceased; I could no longer get

The sublime glimpse, as the Sun now set

The darkness peered through my heart

And whispered to me, that I must part

For the blackish glow, and the faded sheen

Now ruled, and she, was not to be seen.

And with a heavy heart, from the plains

I trudged back, into familiar domains

Even today, when the Sun prepares to sleep,

I recount the glow, and walk to the door

Yearning in memory, I do weep

Long after she was seen no more.