Poetry Archives

His burning eyeballs stared into the dark.
The moon had long been set.  And still he cried:
“Christine!  My Love!  Christine!”  A sudden spark
Pricked through the gloom, and shortly Max espied
With his uncertain vision, so within
Distracted he could scarcely trust its truth,
A latticed window where a crimson gleam
Spangled the blackness, and hung from a pin,
An iron crane, were three gilt balls.  His youth
Had taught their meaning, now they closed upon his dream.