Such poetry imperial,
Came from his fevered pen alone,
Like potent spells carved into stone.
Now shadows fall.
Like mead drunk on a dreamscape mall,
Twice heady in its spicy foam,
He and his gift have been called home.
Now shadows fall.
His words may stir a winter squall,
Or just as easily have ceased
The storms brought by the harsh northeast.
Now shadows fall.
His words a force centripetal
To whirl the spirit high, aloft,
Yet lovely and so feather soft.
Now shadows fall.
His lute once heard in lea and hall
Could charm blue Sirens from the sea,
As well Semitic Astarte.
Now shadows fall.
His grace and words sidereal,
Those poems once his, they now are ours,
Such beauty like a crown of stars!
Now shadows fall.
He is to me a seneschal
Of Beauty, breaking every dawn
Across the burns and dewy lawn,
As shadows fall.
And, sadly now, beyond recall,
Yet we now have what is, or seems,
This beauty wrought from godlike dreams,
Though shadows fall.
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Submission Name: Ave Atque Vale
