The Taj

WHITE, like a spectre seen when night is old

Yet stained with hues of many a tear and smart,

Cornelian, blood-stone, matched in callous art:

Aflame, like passion, like dominion cold,

Bed of imperial consorts whom none part

For ever (domed with glory, heart to heart)

Still whispering to the ages, 'Love is bold

And seeks the height, though rooted in the mould':

Touched, when the dawn floats in an opal mist

By fainter blush than opening roses own;

Calm in the evening's lucent amethyst;

Pearl-crowned, when midnight airs aside have blown

The clouds that rising moonlight faintly kissed;

-- An aspiration fixed, a sigh made stone.

H.G. Keene