All last night I had quiet
In a fragrant dream and warm:
She became my Sabbath,
And round my neck, her arm.
I knew the warmth in my dreaming;
The fragrance, I suppose,
Was her hair about me,
Or else she wore a rose.
Her hair I think; for likest
Woodruffe 'twas, when Spring
Loitering down the wet woodways
Treads it sauntering.
No light, nor any speaking;
Fragrant only and warm.
Enough to know my lodging,
The white Sabbath of her arm.
Public Domain Poetry by Lascelles Abercrombie