Issue 12, Spring 1956
My luckless lady needs no sheet of sun
Nor winter’s briskest word
To stir her now.
Needs not these
Nor the rage of print on a wood told page
To lift her high
And let her lie
In justice’s fold and the dome-shaped splendor.
If time betray not morning’s carved forecast
She will be dancing
In that unpredictable palace of quaint devices
To sophisticated music
And multitudinous green chimes.