![]() Crooning lullabyes to fancied heirs Bereft of those escutshioned walls, She hangs her crown upon the past Hovering soft as a bird in flight Above murmuring, upturned faces. Tattered colors fly As she descends to distant drum With curtsy low and lively arms. Cheeks pink against the blood-red roses Cast by clutching hands Throat, white as swan's down Satine slippers in graceful pose She pas de te's a dulcet plash and leaps across the royal sward Scant gossamer skirt, a white whirl. By: Frances Jean Gildersleeve-Beaupre' |
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