There in the heart of the woods,
Like the forgotten answer to a riddle,
Lost,
The very path forgotten,
Is the sleeping palace.
All around the seasons are awake,
Busy glass blades rise up in springs,
Sheaves are stacked in autumn,
In the veins of the leaf,
Misty vapour in the valley,
But in the sleeping palace,
Nothing moves at all,
Nothing dies;
Nothing returns.
Full of grey more like a picture,
Than the pictures on its walls.
Yes I say,
The palace is full of men and women,
Every one of them alive,
And every one asleep.
The Butler is in the pantry,
With a flask of his master’s wine.