Sunday, November 24, 2013

She had become my Sabbath

All Last Night

All last night I had quiet
In a fragrant dream and warm:
She had become 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.

Lascelles Abercrombie


  1. What a poem. It's more a prayer or song of praise. Thank you for sharing it & beautiful, beautiful, Erin. xo

  2. Breathless.

    Sabbath as a dwelling. Of quiet rest.


  3. Lovely poem ... awesome blog you got here ... glad I found you ... Love, cat.