At midnight during the autumn I stand,
Beneath the mystic moon she will emerge.
The dewy vapour soft and unplanned,
Exhaled from that golden globe’s verge;

The rosemary nods upon the grave;
As lilies floats on waves with icy urge,
A conscious slumber seems to take,
Beneath the mystic moon she will emerge;

The bodiless airs, as a wizard rout,
Ghosts the shadows rise and fall in moon’s light,
Flit through your darken’d chamber in and out,
Beneath the mystic moon she will emerge;

Far in the forest, trees tall dim and old,
For them some untold secret’s may unfold.

Heaven is a place I can’t reach,
And as fruit mature on that tree, I desire one of each,
Provided for me, I think, but they hopeles’y hang,    
Drowning, sinking to their abhor’end abode, from which they came.

If mortal lips could divine and deliver that single sil’nt syllable,
Will I get that fruit hanging from that azure sky, unreachable,
Our statures reach for the sky, and we fear,
Daily our heroisme we recite, but we don’t come near,

I offer you that love is life, and life is immortality,
Follow that brook into your heart,
There where blushing birds drink without formality,
Alas, will shadows tremble of those little draughts, you pry,
‘less be beware, or that brook of life will soon burn and be dry.

I bring unknown wine to my lips long parch’ng,
And summon them to drink that ruby juice.

My hands hug that cooling translucent glass,
Promis’d heaven, yet it does not reach closely.

Hope, that subtle glutton, it feeds upon the fair,
I wait by that ethernal gate of sweetn’ss,
Knowing it will not come to my mort’l side,
Angels must have seen my desire and hope.

Resting in the land of viands and wines,
I did not know the ample bread of lands,
Some good some poor like fruit of mountain bush,
It was so unlike the drop I tasted last.

             The birds and I me have often shared,
              In nature's joyous enticing dining-room.

That orb of the even’g sun sets in clouds,
And storms have ent’red that somber nightly shroud,
O'er golden streamlets, and forests all around,
The dy’ng day hidd’n behind sun’s golden mound.

So is that beauty which you hold in lease,
beauty, full of cand’r and does never cease,
while I bend and I low’r my sight and head,
And worship your gay smiles, as is said.

Unmiss’d by creation joyous and vast,
Still chill’d in the light, soon I shall have cast,
Will that beauty die with her guileless heart,
Leaving me enslav’d, as so it did start.

Fortune; chances of where my soul is lost,
While I roam through life couni’g the final cost.

Silently the sun rises out of its nightly slumber,
Shadows hide, awaiting sun’s fierce look,
Veils of mist rise to join their brethren,
Hiding the tree’s peaks, soon to be painted golden by the sun.

The last of that misty membrane is drifting not knowing where to go,
Will it join the shadows, still hiding in the dells,
Birds chase and sing on that now blond plain filled with golden spots,
But their fun and adventure is soon to end.

The rising sun looking disapproving at natures play,
Knowing that this too will have to end soon,
Flowers turn to promising brightness, hoping for light and warmth to come,
Slowly nature follows sun’s vivid controlling rules.

Crowds of shadows are chased like beggars away from those likely spots,
I follow my golden path home, near that vale and shadows dark,
To rest from my nightly toil, disapproving of nature’s warm play,

As autumn looks on guilty and silently, approached that summers day.

During those gentle hours of work, I wait,
For winters paradise to start his show,
Lifting my existence and rise up straight,
I will not lie dormant or melt like snow.

And wait under that wan light of winter,
I end work to dance, writhe, for no reason,
Being in heaven, as cold days splinter,
A winter’s day might seem short, this season.

We remember, as summer distillations are gone,
Leaving debris and mayhem in its wake,
It’s beauty bereft and days now badly drawn,
Winter’s tyranny looking at summer’s take,

Cold and unfair, cunning in what it does,
Me, a prisoner pent into that icy grip.

As time moves on and the brave day seeks his hideous nightly bed,
I behold those faded flowers well past their prime,
Mature trees now leafless, denuded and bare are wilting,
As summer’s green is all but gone,
Stolen by autumn’s greedy hand.

But now that autumn is borne away, by that white chilly one,
Among the wastes of time, this years autumn is gone awry,
Like a woman’s portrait painted by nature’s hand,
Hue of hues, unknown by anyone,
Now winter is here, stealing that women’s soul,

Whereupon it looks and I am,
Worried about April’s first born flowers.
Sun’s glorious eye look’d on at winter’s horrid crime,
the plunder of women’s summer soul’s,
Once, that winter was a fair sweet youth.

Gone are those days, as winter’s is showing no remorse
As souls lost, seldom or never found again,
Winter’s crime, like broken glass no cement can redress
Flowers withered, covered by winters snowy shame