Fairy Tale (2)

Now folds the Tree of Day its perfect flowers,

And every bloom becomes a bud again,

Shut and sealed up against the golden showers

Of bees that hover in the velvet hours….

    Now a strain

Wild and mournful blown from shadow towers,

Echoed from shadow ships upon the foam,

Proclaims the Queen of Night.

    From their bowers

The dark Princess fluttering, wing their flight

To their old Mother, in her huge old home.