Classic Poem

A sacred horror holds the place,
hardly the leaves upon its hem
may lisp the song that stirs in them
but fails before the hidden face.

The lucid gaze of silence there
visions in one auroral gem
the secret of our diadem,
the mortal pageantry of air.

O sear'd beside this Austral foam
dim leaves that flit withouten home
fain there to fall an offering,
o'er you perchance a resting-space
some shadows of that light may fling
the autumn of a fleeting grace.