In a wooded glen forest deep
Atlantia wears a gauzy gown
of diaphanous white
back and forth, to and fro
she flitters about spying upon
human beings who weep for lovers lost
in her hands she holds an urn of foxglove leaf
sends her healing powers in a silvery mist
to mend the grey and drab tatters
of a broken and torn human spirit
solemn now, though usually mischievous
she goes about her chore of charity
marries the light with the darkness of night