Good ideas and conversation. No ads, no tracking. Login or Take a Tour!
Dawn doesn't get more orgasmic than this!
Plum-purple was the west; but spikes of light
Spear’d open lustrous gashes, crimson-white;
(Where the eye fix’d, fled the encrimsoning spot,
And, gathering, floated where the gaze was not;)
And through their parting lids there came and went
Keen glimpses of the inner firmament:
Fair beds they seem’d of water-lily flakes
Clustering entrancingly in beryl lakes:
Anon, across their swimming splendour strook,
An intense line of throbbing blood-light shook
A quivering pennon; then, for eye too keen,
Ebb’d back beneath its snowy lids, unseen.
Now all things rosy turn’d: the west had grown
To an orb’d rose, which, by hot pantings blown
Apart, betwixt ten thousand petall’d lips
By interchange gasp’d splendour and eclipse.
The zenith melted to a rose of air;
The waves were rosy-lipp’d; the crimson glare
Shower’d the cliffs and every fret and spire
With garnet wreathes and blooms of rosy-budded fire.