She looked at me through raven hair
with eyes as glinting garnets rare,
her face as milk beneath the moon,
and wistful at nocturnal-noon.
She turned to face the gentle west
where fleeing sun had found its rest;
but that had been long hours past,
when into shadows we were cast.
And yet in silence she stood still,
despite the darkness and the chill;
but lo! a cooing dove was heard,
from somewhere near, a blessëd bird!
And as if wakened from a dream,
her eyes regained a brighter gleam;
she looked towards a nearby tree,
and then turned smiling back to me.
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