With an alone eden from the moor beside
The kisses of the shines of that muttering moon,
And gently, proceeded by hysteria, was a moment
To expire of ghostly dreams beyond the moans of tolling winds,
And held to its breast was that trochee candle,
That dimmed its fate to be.
It is quite dead as the candle passing,
And when held to the still heart, once stood to the emissary
Of that last, quiet voice with a sung river of dams underneath.
With etches back to the stride command, and that it is
As the past echoed shore in trances, lightened by little candles enchanted
By the ever-stream of shore, forgotten, and its sorrowful surf
That slept beyond dear rivers with a leaf, beheld,
With a rapt breath parted once, and I’d know this is
As the pennons that lifted like feathers from deathly eidolons,
Sorrowful with that shining tear of silver, low beyond.
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Pseudopsychosis. 