After Morphia

Pain is a ghostly peacock walking

In the dim garden of the brain, ;

His silver fan in cool waves spreading,

His voice like wind in grain.

Light his feet as webs of crystal,

Carven his head like ivory,

And sweet his breath as foam falling

Across a phantom sea.

Exquisite, slow, he bends and passes,

Watching for dawn with anguished eyes,

Vague as though he half remembered

Scimitars in the skies.