Clark Ashton Smith

Across thy face a glimmer passes—
Wrought by what far and hidden flame?
Say, is it loveliness, or love,
Or light of sunken moons remembered
From gardens none shall name?

There is a secret shadow clinging
Closely between thy lips of red:
Is it the grief of new desire?
Or half-forgotten darkness lulling
Sorrowful loves long dead?

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