Across a winding, babbling brook,
Around a sturdy, solid oak,
I stand; a soul unseen, forgotten.
All laden—burdened with meanings.
Below, the valley streaks away
As if it were a golden snake
Whose fiery yellow scales, ablaze,
Were lost among the bushes green.
There, under all the watchful cliffs
(those hawk-eyed sentinels of day
And night who ever see but never warn)
Lays Avalon, the realm of myth,
With mayday fortunes gold and swift,
And deep within it twice-tried wealth
My dear-beloved sister-bride
Awaits for me with tender lips.
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