I bring my poor work, which
Is like the dreams of the dead,
And the moon on the fauna rich
Of my remorse is shed:
With swords my wishes crowned,
Violet snakes that creep
Through my dreams and enlace in my sleep,
Lions in sunshine drowned,
Lilies in far waters green,
Closed hands that never shall ope,
Red stems of hatred between
Sorrows of love without hope.
Pity the song, Lord God!
And let my sad prayers rise,
While the scattered moon on the sod
Keeps night at the rim of the skies.