The Rose of Sharon
Whither has thy beloved gone,
O, thou fairest among women?
like a radiant bride of Christ,
while the others were asleep.
Outside stooped figures spoke nearby, going off together, from time to time, then returning to the street again to wait beyond the streetlight’s zone.
Hers was a simple, flowing flowing grace, her hips a gentle waterfall, her breasts two fawns demur within the copse, half-curious and more afraid of man.
She wore a blue-purled peasant blouse and plain gray skirt to below her knees, her feet were bare as a maiden washing clothes beneath the morning sun in Babylon,
her hands wafted through the air like doves.
It seemed as if she walked in bliss,
her wan face set off with waves of dark brown hair,
her brown eyes soft with the distant music of the spheres.
The third-shift watched her as she passed their station,
emerging from the shadows into light; and entering into shadow again:
a chimera far in an eerie reddish glow. They kept sharp objects from her there, afraid that she would hurt herself, as if her passion might take her up and carry her, singing, but even they said little more.
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