The weaved hung warmth of vernal flame,
That which kissed upon the tears through
The hollowed smoke, which turns the eve.
The golden dale washed through the sea
As the reflection of the drafts that were bound to death
To the stones that float, whisked by a gentle air
With a chill to the dainty lining of the eve.
Where the darkness goes to the faint calls—those that are shadowed
Through the golden meadows of the dawn,
They brush through lost as death—those weary shadows
That dome from the coursing wind, morose,
And another dead sun, glim as wept ash,
The remnants of the day, passed as silent eidolons.
As the banks of the river parted,
Through the virgin buttresses to blown ash
Dwelt in waters and encroached by the bones—
By the bones of gleams through stained glass.
The dried leaf’s ceramic glaze,
Through the dim notch of a well’s stone,
As the dale of trees were old at a sight,
The temptations of fire, wickedly in its blaze,
The wind sang to the bristles of a fortnight,
When the dried remains are now of whispering dust,
As the waters calmed, and the winds as virgin as the rain,
As the ruins of the past were chilled throughout the night.
The alone dusk
Makes the gleam, as the small pupil, dwindle,
Blinded by the tremors of wind—with shriveled leaves
At their last skins; and the wandering chill
Takes the soul to the blown winds.