On that western isle, bathed in gold-
Drenching sun, my only, giddy love,
Weaved a daisy chain and crowned 
Herself, above the clouds and purple-
Violet seas, her grace, topping yellow-
Sparkled weeds, to flower, marching
In fealty, round her red, reign of crown, 
Soon, after new mornings impromptu 
Coronation, misty, bluer, eyes felt slow
Distant dread, the subtle, burning fate,
The inevitable nights of overthrowing
And fade of love's noble, corona light.

Were I shaper of dream, I would build
A grand labyrinthian castle of granite 
Stone to contain that day—  I would 
Conjure a moat, impervious to shifting 
Time, the mute corruption of sorrows 
Waking.