Fucking sonnets. Fuck.
That tree which borders on the realm of dream
And brings forth every twilight’s day as fruit,
The gate through which the generations stream,
Star-crowned and with life’s waters in its root,
Its wooden womb the cradle of the dead:
A hornéd lady takes it as her keep,
Her golden cat’s eyes off’ring joy and dread,
Her hair the blue-washed black of heaven’s deeps.
She carries a long wand spiraled with vines,
She wears her robes in green and gold and white,
Her voice intoxicates like ancient wines,
About her is a touch of summer light.
And from her branches she will pluck a sun
Within which seven blessings have been spun.
And brings forth every twilight’s day as fruit,
The gate through which the generations stream,
Star-crowned and with life’s waters in its root,
Its wooden womb the cradle of the dead:
A hornéd lady takes it as her keep,
Her golden cat’s eyes off’ring joy and dread,
Her hair the blue-washed black of heaven’s deeps.
She carries a long wand spiraled with vines,
She wears her robes in green and gold and white,
Her voice intoxicates like ancient wines,
About her is a touch of summer light.
And from her branches she will pluck a sun
Within which seven blessings have been spun.