Among recent days, at one dying of the light,
I saw a brilliant pine tree that did gather all my sight,
and sent my mind past it, toward the well by which ’twas bright:
the fountain-sun within the black cold adumbrating night,
which forever pours forth deathly, cruel, irradiating blight,
making worlds barren.
Her needled boughs bright in untruth, as some
muddy air sifts and bends the evening’s glow;
she drinks up the given sun-sap, born from
a prism’d veil that censors violence’s flow.
I would to hold my tongue
yet it moves to disgrace
and poison all your fount,
while truth to efface.
The heavens bear not night nor naught,
but supple beams that deign to fit
themselves to various forms, that thought
must not suppose a cthonic pitch
has sent from deathly ether fraught
with danger, so that it might see
us lulled by beautied corpses,
to dream sweet lies about their source
which sunders, voids, divorces.