By Laura L.
"My Lord," you said to me
in the garden, in the spring,
the night heralding a thousand stars,
the carpet bright with a hundred flowers.
I had never imagined one so fair,
the sacred light captured in your hair,
your pride a torch to light the way,
your eyes so wise, your face so grave
as tall as I, from Elder Race born,
from your family, in exile torn.
We met there upon the stair
alone for once if we dared.
Your tresses plaited to your knees,
your cloak alive in the breeze.
The words died upon my tongue.
In Love's confusion I was flung
and still you stood, straight and proud,
and said again "My Lord" aloud.
The Wise I have been named since,
but then I was a sorry prince.
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"Lady Fair," you said to me,
the house's light about you streaming.
I could not behold your face
but for the outline of your body's grace.
Standing poised upon the stair,
the light haloing that silver hair,
you stepped to me and I saw your eyes,
silent but speaking wordless praise,
light silver as the skin and hair,
delicate and passing fair.
A lord indeed to stop the tongue
and secrecy a handsome song –
it flatters without eloquence
subverted by the need for sense.
The light flared high in your eye;
fain was I to watch it die.
You took my arm with gentle hands
though neither of us could ought but stare
and our thoughts, neither could tell.
"Lady," you said, "I'd know thee well."