Deep in the chalk of gloaming flame,
The tawn and pale, of moan and loon,
Where under leaves of forest shades,
The crescent rails of the riding moon,
Here is when the quick blood running
Drains with shear seepings and looks,
With eyes agape, small game stunned
Over pines and green hemlock wood,
The ferryman wings and clawing tears,
Whose silent strike and low red raking
Blasts unto an indifferent lane of peers,
This is the house of apparition's name,
A mages fugue, muffled muses reprise;
The **** song which creeps as sun dies.

FASTEN your hair with a golden pin,
And bind up every wandering tress;
I bade my heart build these poor rhymes:
It worked at them, day out, day in,
Building a sorrowful loveliness
Out of the battles of old times.
You need but lift a pearl-pale hand,
And bind up your long hair and sigh;
And all men's hearts must burn and beat;
And candle-like foam on the dim sand,
And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky,
Live but to light your passing feet.

I see the peeling paint upon the wall,
Along with bricks ready to fall.
The thunder is drawing near,
Whispered words are spoken with fear.
The rain is here with all it brings.
The smell? the sorrow of forgotten things.
Taste the tension in the air?
Bitter lonliness, lack of care.
Just like marble, cold and smooth,
I reach for a heart impossible to soothe.
Can you feel the sky falling down?
But if you'd never known, you wouldn't hear a sound.