Lily, the golden
walks at night
through the gilded trees.


Gold branches quiver,
moonlight falls:
Lily steps out on
the old stone walls,


glides into the barn,
creeps up to the loft
where the air is sweet
and the hay is soft.


Now there enthroned,
a queen at ease,
sits Lily, the golden

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 14 Number 9, on page 39
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