gothic poetry

the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
out of me unworthy and unknown
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
it was a tall young oysterman
see, they return
as a white candle
and with the humming bird
calm as that second summer
there is an hour of peaceful rest
i went up and down the streets
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
but alas, just dreams
be patient, life, when love is at the gate