Eventide

This longest night leads me back,
To the shortest day with the most effect,
Still feel your delayed touch on my shoulder,
The lasting light faltering, yet still it can ignite
Your absent smolder.

I can see it setting just beyond the fire,
Lit to illustrate the year which has passed,
The cinders soar out of my sight,
Higher and higher.
They move at last.

Like an burning butterfly which spreads its wings,
Like a sallow skylark which is suffocated as it sings,
Like a barren bell which rusts as it rings,
It is the ashen harper which strikes sorrow on its strings,
My sovereign remnant, my crown of kings.

I wrap it in discrepancy and seal it with desire,
I carefully lay it in its cold coffin box,
This the unopened gift of which I never tire,
My useless hope of the equinox.