The twilight turns from amethyst
To deep and deeper blue,
The lamp fills with a pale green glow
The trees of the avenue.
The old piano plays an air,
Sedate and slow and gay;
She bends upon the yellow keys,
Her head inclines this way.
Shy thought and grave wide eyes and hands
That wander as they list — -
The twilight turns to darker blue
With lights of amethyst.
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From guest Karen Bressner (contact)
I had heard of James Joyce but never read anything he wrote. I like the word amethyst.
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