Fyodor Bingoffsky
Madeline's Dream
She lies in dim shadows upon the bed,
With wreathèd limbs, as every serpent's shine
Enclothes its form, but for her chestnut head,
Her eyes closed to the world. In little time,
She sleeps, and dreams of horses high and fine
Mounted by knights, their swords drawn to the sky:
Fought tooth and claw for lady Madeline
Rooted to a tree, while her breathless sighs
play lute-strings to the bloodied hue and cry.
They joust and fence, the blows strike to the bone
Till one falls to his feet, and wretchèd,faints,
The other lifts his helmet to the sun -
Young Porphyro kneels to her silken train
His hair all askew in the thund'ring rain,
And says, "Wilt thou be mine, my Madeline?"
Engirdles his arm round her waist, and strains
Her to his heart, while their lips intertwine
As flowers round their ankles weave and wind.
From the closet-cavern he softly creeps:
Her rich brown tresses on the pillows wave:
Curl round her arms, like monsters from the deep;
(Whilst from her quiv'ring throat sobs shake and heave)
Like tails of creatures bred to deceive.
Restless she stirs, the blanchèd sheets flung down
Her rounded arms from silence wreck and rave
A storm unleashed. With fevered, raging yawns,
Her beauty unmask'd to St Agnes' moon.
Like one enchanted by a lamia's charm
Knowing full well his soul is fast enchained
He gazes on her still unravish'd form
And strums an ancient song, tear-drawn and quaint
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