A misty sun as pale as winter trees,
Enamelled in torn silver skin,
Hewn by the wail of an eidonic breeze
Brings thoughts of seasonal chagrin.
Sighed covenants we endorse in forest shrines
By witnesses of rotten boughs,
We live by one illusion that defines
The visions that inside us rouse.
We live in shadow of the morning moon,
We doze in the light of the twilight rays.
By amber leaves of stars upon us strewn
We find the solace of truth in our days.
We are the sons of transcendental dawn,
Time is eternal in our hearts.
And even when the aster has withdrawn
We praise silence and merry arts.