John Henry Brown (1859–1946)

AN EARTH-THRONED queen, she leans with languid grace,

And fills the round of vision radiantly.

Soft lights and shades the heaven of her face

Endue with spell-framed hints of mystery.

Her breathing, like the flower-sweet breath of May,

When summer’s light wind-heralds run before,

Gives fragrance unto gardens; while the day,

Enamoured, through the cloud-hung Western door,

Peers backward. On her jewelled vest are seen,

’Mid broidered streams and trees, the homes of men;

Here jolts a rolling wain through meadows green,

And kine belated wind through yonder glen.

From out her star-inwoven dusk of hair

A silver crescent gleams divinely fair.