The meadows winded from gold,
As the dawn of the early day sets
To the death of the gale
Between the droplets of mist
Angled by the trees.
It came as the silent
Shadows that budded from
Its flesh and drops of dew
With the wind curled by
The breast of the sycamore
Dwindled by evening stars
They stare down with love.
As the sung stones to the relief
Of the vales of whitened, plagued by moon,
Silver tear of grass,
Bundled by the ocean’s strife
The window shows the rivers, sullen,
(Wandering the tribunal moon)—
Casts the sun and voiced the swoon
As the dawn does end, as the faint heart
Moans from the leaves of autumn for awhile,
With a petal drop of the moon
That which masks the lip
Upon the poor float of a smile.
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