William Carman Roberts (1874–1941)

HER gold hair, fallen about her face,

Made light within that shadowy place,

But on her garments lay the dust

Of many a vanished race.

Her deep eyes, gazing straight ahead,

Saw years and days and hours long dead,

While strange gems glimmered at her feet,

Yellow, and green, and red.

And ever from the shadows came

Voices to pierce her heart like flame.

The great bats fanned her with their wings,

The voices called her name.

But yet her look turned not aside

From the black deep where dreams abide,

Where worlds and pageantries lay dead

Beneath the viewless tide.

Her elbow on her knee was set,

Her strong hand propt her chin, and yet

No man might name that look she wore,

Nor any man forget.