Beneath the Golden Willow
Beneath the golden willow,
Made of dreamwood dressed in stars,
The wizard’s form,
In white so warm,
His uniform,
A firestorm,
As blazing red as Mars.
The clouds in pink profusion,
With the planets gliding by,
He meditates,
At starry gates,
Anon he waits,
Anticipates,
The dawn rush in the sky.
The charismatic daylight,
And the purple haze in cheer,
With darkness dead,
A blooming red,
A fountainhead,
In boldness bled,
Through heavens spreading clear.
The pictures of the summer,
Springing into happy view,
The dancing stream,
The fishes’ gleam,
The season’s dream,
The sunny beam,
Encased in blinding blue…
Day to bring renewal,
With the willow drinking sun,
His sacred place,
In yellow lace,
His gentle face,
Again to trace,
The hallowed rays that stun.
Vibrant revelation,
In the powers of the sky,
The turning wheel,
In forceful zeal,
The clouds as steel,
The thunder peel,
The lightning cracking high.
Then the gentle gloaming,
With the daylight in retreat,
The weary sun,
In rest begun,
The colours stun,
In redness spun,
The clouds a rosy sheet.
Then the dreamwood magic,
And the drapery of light,
The bauble sparks,
Like bright remarks,
The planets’ arcs,
In dreamy darks,
Atop the luscious night.
adamdaniel 