Archaic figures haunt your somnolence,

Akin to spires of some forgotten hold

            That, now all dark and dense,

            Was once immense –

But fell to chaff like memories untold!

O spirit, dire silence is your chain.

All sonance is curtailed by deathless wood;

            Would death, the septic stain,

            Return again

If vulgar noise returned? Perhaps it should!

A lattice, foliage-weaved, strains tight the sun

To ichor. All around the lazy leaves

Embrace the peat below, and all as one

They climb their old hosts’ trunks like plated greaves.

            O, sallow beauty, let new life arise;

            Your pallid skyline, sharp and black incised

            Could give fresh spirit to our own old eyes!