All Last Night

All last night I had quiet
In a fragrant dream and warm:
She became my Sabbath,
And round my neck, her arm.

 I knew the warmth in my dreaming;
        The fragrance, I suppose,
 Was her hair about me,
        Or else she wore a rose.

 Her hair I think; for likest
        Woodruffe 'twas, when Spring
 Loitering down the wet woodways
        Treads it sauntering.

 No light, nor any speaking;
        Fragrant only and warm.
 Enough to know my lodging,
        The white Sabbath of her arm.

Public Domain Poetry by Lascelles Abercrombie