Jerome Brooke Poems

Near the centre, near Saint Peters,
Stands the Crystal palace,
In the palace, near the silver fountain,
Sleeps our Queen, all in lace.
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Dark waves rise, then race at the shore,
Black nights of the soul.
At sea, pale clouds, and mist, hide memory,
Moments of joy, and sorrow.
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Dancer, spinning in silk, turn to me,
I do burn.
Lady in black, Maid of Fire, burn me,
Come, return.
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Prince of Mindanao, splendid in bronze,
Marching, so young, so pure.
Vassals bow before your horse, the warband,
Does salute you, bright in azure.
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Ladies of the court, with grace and charm,
All walk with our Ador.
Ladies of love, and courtesans of song,
All these and more.
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Planes of Mirage, clouds of mist, lie deep,
Freed by light.
Ages past, lost to all eyes, dwell below,
Waiting for life.
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Mount, ride my Prince, son of our Queen,
Lead us to Gold.
Pale is the horse, the dim white horse,
That I now do hold.
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High on the hill, round the lone prey,
Wolves sing, howls of cold.
Wolves, gray hunters, sing and run;
Hunters fleet, and bold.
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Wolves howl, chill warning,
Songs of red blood.
Hunters smile, men reach for spears,
Stone, one with wood.
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High, over the sea, stands our Lady,
With hair of gold.
On hills of pure silver, hard driven,
By gales, ever bold.
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