Jane Morris as Proserpine

With thought ridden eyes
And pomegranate in hand
Rossetti took Jane to another land
He made her Proserpine
And haply declared
'woe me for thee'

That silken light
Must have added colors
To his vision,his plight,
That climbing vine
Must have had clinging branches
Of memory,
And that incense burner
With smouldering attributes
Unsuspecting wings surely took,
Jane Morris how he turned immortal,
In walnut frame how he made her fatal,
Her furtive glance upwards
With poesy his colors of mind merged,
And he with detailed description of his sighs and pines,
Turned his Jane to a dire Proserpine.

(on a painting by D.G.Rossetti titled 'Proserpine')


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