By Luis G. Dato

Under your window passing in the night,
For your accustomed face to see behind
Your orchids fluttering in the nocturne wind,
(Like little pigeons posed for flight
Into the blueness of the infinite),
My eyes could not their precious quarry find,
No hands with fragrance weariness to bind,
No glimpse of the beloved face lost to sight.

Wearisome day, and night so desolate,
This ghostliness that haunts my sighed-for hours
Turned by frustration into solitude.
And then beyond, I saw lift up in state
Tall spires of the cathedral like your flowers,
Smiling at where irresolute I stood.

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