A Song of Praise

You have not heard my love’s dark throat, Slow-fluting like a reed, Release the perfect golden note She caged there for my need.

Her walk is like the replica Of some barbaric dance Wherein the soul of Africa Is winged with arrogance.

And yet so light she steps across The ways her sure feet pass, She does not dent the smoothest moss Or bend the thinnest grass.

My love is dark as yours is fair, Yet lovelier I hold her Than listless maids with pallid hair, And blood that’s thin and colder.

You-proud-and-to-be-pitied one, Gaze on her and despair; Then seal your lips until the sun Discovers one as fair.