On trees that prance, shadows did sulk,
And laze did gaze, trance in haze,
All bare, tremors of taut depth,
Tis’ all true, the age of rootless hues.
The shadows watched, for oaks still rued,
Of forest fires in fevered time,
Of milky tears on the mother’s breast,
Tis’ all true, the rage of ravaged smiles.
Is time the orb or timelessness the garb?
Is moon the hide or eclipses the pride?
Netherworld grieves for what the world could give,
Yet ! Tis’ true, the lashes on brows blinks.
The shadows did tremble, a sunbeams preamble,
And hope did plunder, on bosoms of surrender,
The violence weeps and the silence sleeps,
Tis’ all true, All mist on the soul’s pew.