Softly brush thy face, breath of ghosts, whispers of fog.
That wend within the twists of glen and bog.
Mourn the bygone light of day with softly fallen tears,
As pale fingers flow and fill, the world disappears.

Croon soundlessly with damp sighs, the endless sound,
Of wings and water-voices, these lost children found.
Raise softly with twining, pallid antiquity,
The shiver’d birth of this offspring born repeatedly.

Come toward the vanished edge of lapping waves,
And bow and glide within it’s ceaseless, crying graves.
Come down soft, silken, blinding weaver, and cover over this,
With endless strands of brilliant cold, and opaque, dying bliss.

Retrace with silent, twisting filament, this visage of obscurity,
And bend within these; coiling, insipid; the translation of reality.
Whilst all the while, with coolth and waiting, curls silently,
The final, cloaking veil, and daring, takes over entirely.