The Lady of the Loft
--In honor of "The Lady of Shalott" by Lord Tennyson. G. Matthew King 11/19-29/98 Part I On both sides of the street lie Lights glaring to the eye. Shelters, posts, and buildings to the sky, And throughout the city sirens run by Through the night so soft. And up and down the sidewalks go, The people walking in their rows. Never looking up, but ever below, Below The Lady of the Loft. The rain falls to ground a shiver; Coldness sinks in with a quiver. People pass by, caring never About the light from window sliver, Through the night so soft. Hard wood floors where she cowers Are brightened only by few flowers. Over cloth an easel towers Loved by the Lady of the Loft. Outside the window, heavily veiled, A world passes which to her had failed. So to private lover she bailed. While sounds of city still wailed Through the night so soft. Who has seen her waving hand When by the window she bravely stands? Looking out on the city's land Is the Lady of the Loft. Maybe people, out so late to meet lover dearly, Wandering streets rather fearly. Looking for the sun to dawn clearly Or a moon beam merely Through the night so soft. Darkness tells people not to tarry. Every alive, to not be weary As the mistiness hangs all airy Seen by the Lady of the Loft. Part II So there she paints night and day A kaleidoscope of colors somber and gay. She knows what they all say, A craziness on hers stays, As she paints through the night so soft. She cares not what curses may be, Onwards she paints steadily. No other lover has she The Lady of the Loft. And passing below window clear Passing below all the year People in the world appear Walking through the night so soft Through the streets raindrops swirl, Sometimes leaves dance in a whirl. As below her pass boys and girls, Seen lovingly be the Lady of the Loft. Sometimes school children light and glad, Or parishioners and mourners looking sad. Youngsters out pursuing fads In their jackets against the cold clad Through the rainy night so soft. Ever less often in the window through Go the last of the good boys in blue. She knows no hero bold and true, Does the Lady in the Loft. In painting only she delights; Colors bending to the music sad or bright. Painting pictures far through the night Pictures never to be witnessed by human sight; Painting through the night so soft. And rain clouds dwell overhead Showering divorcees and newlyweds. "I am so sick of loneliness," said The Lady of the Loft. Part III The view outside window under eaves, Mounted horseman through crowd weaves. His badge standing out against brown leaves, A brighter gold one never conceives. A hero none dare accost. On a charger nobleness he does wield, True beauty and other things idealed. As he rode street and meadow park field Beneath the Lady of the Loft. On stallion horse rode he. Sometimes searching for a star to see. Defending those who desire to be free. Watching the citizens all merrily, Traveling through the night so soft. From saddle and body slung, Images of rank and heroic deed hung. As he rode hoofbeats rung, To the ear of the Lady in the Loft. All in rainy dark night's weather, Clad in denim, blue cloth and black leather. In horse's mane a single feather, Given when child and mother brought together, As he rode through the night so soft. And in the drizzly light, He ventured forth in a neon night. Wandering in and out of sight Of the Lady in the Loft. With graceful ease through night he flowed. On shodded hooves his stallion trode. His steel blue eyes in darkness glowed, As he patrolled streets and roads, Through the night so soft. Watching lasses shop, workers on the river, Passing under window lighted sliver. Guardian angel over those who fear quiver, A hero none dare accost. She left her painting, feeling in a swoon. And slowly spun three times the room. She felt fire within her bloom. Heard her heart beat in the silent tomb Through the night so soft. Out flew the paints, brushes thin and wide. The painting, her love; her blood, a rising tide. "I am damned by my nature," she cried, The Lady of the Loft. Part IV In the stormy howling wind straining, The pale yellow moon waning, The people on the street only complaining, The sky a sadness of raining Over the hero none dare accost. And in her painting appeared a boat, On sheltered lake did two lovers gently float, And on the bow she wrote, The Lady of the Loft. And down the city street's dim expanse, Like some wanderer lost in trance, There all happened upon mischance-- For with a passioned countenance She looked out to the night so soft. And once upon a time, oh fateful day She undid the lock and into the night she strayed. The crowd bore her along her way, The Lady of the Loft. Walking, in finery of white, Red hair loosely flowing left and right, And leaves swirling, on her falling light, So many scenes greeted her sight, Through the night so soft. And as she traveled far and long, Streets and park fields among, Some heard her singing softly sad song, The Lady of the Loft. A carol, love-struck, passionate wholly, Emotions loud while voice sweet and lowly As her blood froze in the night slowly, And her eyes tear-stained holy, Through the night so soft. Before she through one night safely flied, Before finishing a painting by candle's side In a pale shattered sadness died The Lady of the Loft. Through the window, none to see, In her apartment, not the gallery, A painting calmly waited on she She who would finish it and set heart free, Through the night so soft. Out into the streets they came, Men and women, seekers of fortune and fame, And none would see that painting's unknown name, Painted by the Lady of the Loft. And who painted this? And what others are here? Would be the cry one day far and near. To own a work would soon be source of tragic cheer. And for one a broken heart fear, Would sometimes seize him in the night so soft. For apart from everyone a space, A hero would muse on a painted face, Thinking her beautiful; never knowing the love and grace Of the Lady of the Loft