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The
Slave Girl
by
Fletcher
N. Brown
Nearby
this slave-town's
fiord
A holy man attends
a girl
Too threadbare
and bedraggled,
Brimming with
resplendent pearls
Too precious to
be purchaséd;
Whose Beauty shall
unfurl
Despite the whip-backed
surly sky
And greet the
lib'ral world.
She,
thinking on her
brother
Sleeping on the
frozen soil,
Beseeches tardy
flowers
Whisp'ring 'round
her virgin soul:
“Be quiet!
No—quieter...”
For winter is
the holiest of
climes.
Meanwhile,
the twilit mystic
sky
Has rent itself
in twain
And by a wintry
mistral's blight
Stole off to southern
plains
That April shall
receive her resurrection
And bless them
with her radiant
complexion—
Whilst
trees here, solemn,
waiting
On her, clutch
their trembling
leaves;
Here birds, no
longer singing;
Spring and summer
are deceased
Herein this most-empyreal
of times—
Snug, nestled
'midst the mistletoe
and rime.
Whence
screeching birds
take shelter
From December's
darkly breast;
Her blue eyes
speak of warmer
weather
Blinking o'er
the dusk-lit West,
Which falls like
sleep-dust o'er
this hoary town;
A prophecy of
solemn and of
sacrificial sound.
This
girl, no longer
coarsely bound
By dogma, vice
or chain
Has fled this
northern slaver's
town
To grace fair-southern
plains—
For Love has spoken
on the coming
spring
And stolen off
with winter's
deathly sting!
Thus
spake the holy
man:
“Where goest
thou, stranger?”
“Abide with
me,” She
said,
“Thine occult
Angel!”
The
Slave Girl Copyright
2013 by
Fletcher
N. Brown
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