By: Shalymar P.
I The Winter Afternoon At the cold, barren, glass pane, weary crystalline frost grew upon the smooth white stone sill, As wafts of wind in uttered torment broke in thunderous laps or violent sough on the window, As far away the Sun bloomed as a tender pale flower on the pearl cloud-girt gray velvet Heaven, But the slender gold sunbeams withered as an invisible ghost shrieking in the lavender twilight, As lilac-blue delicate snowflake stars ushered as a soft murmur of rumpled wool in the dooryard, As the chill screams of the noontide breeze rang in shrill electric terror as the wailing parched thirst of Tantalus. II The Eastern Mirror Then, as I beckoned forth into some ancient room with pale wood tiles breaking in screeching whispers. Dim of no golden light nor by a wisp of a warm candle flame, for no hearth cooked the cold lank air, And the wind rapped on the glass, bit by curls of diamond frost and a hush breath fogged the window, I found a mirror at the east of the room, where the musk crisp breeze glistened in matches of ice, And glinted of sparks of bronze dust in the aged bare oaken room, and cobwebs as threads of thin wool, Swathed in the ashen ceiling where snows of dust fell on my hair, with sprinkles of sweet frozen dew. III The Porcelain Maiden The smooth glass of the Eastern Mirror rippled as the silver sea under an evening with the shriveled sterling Moon, As the lace cress green-violet waves thrashing forth in sounding- tremors washing the bay of golden sand, But the Mirror of the silver ocean then carved a face of the glass; etched deep invisible eyes appeared, A white mouth and a slender gray brow (as sketched by an artist’s hand), then silver rines of hair wreathed with ice blue flowers and black berries, The maiden in the mirror wore a loosely swirling silk dress as the naked ancient water nymphs, And her cheeks were as powdered porcelain as those pale dolls of hardened cold wax. IV The Ghost’s Omen I asked in a gentle whisper to my awe, (for a youthful ashen woman was in my mirror!) “Lady Phantom why is it you are in my glass?” and she shivered as a tender sweet orange blossom struck by a lightning of wind, “Your face is my own, in old youth you give to foolish whim!” her breathless voice rasped, “Ha,” I laughed in contempt, “Maiden Ghost in my Mirror I have naught sinned, you are naught my own being,” “In unbelief your cheeks shall be chilling porcelain lacking soft flush and as the pale blossom on the bough you shall wilt in the flaming Winter!” And before as she had appeared in the invisible glass she faded in flakes of smooth silken gray, And the rapping Northern wind uttered her false words, for fire to touch my somber Soul and the blue billows of the ocean to swallow me.