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In the Gold Room: a Harmony

by Oscar Wilde, 1881

Her ivory hands on the ivory keys
   Strayed in a fitful fantasy,
 Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees
   Rustle their pale leaves listlessly,
 Or the drifting foam of a restless sea
 When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.

 Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold
   Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun
 On the burnished disk of the marigold,
   Or the sun-flower turning to meet the sun
   When the gloom of the jealous night is done,
 And the spear of the lily is aureoled.

 And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine
   Burned like the ruby fire set
 In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,
   Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,
   Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet
 With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.

Published in Poems

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