Scriptured in the features of your face, and in the hues of delicate
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Which painteth thee with the colour of antique gold
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Throughout dim and narrow lanes, aery surges of cold
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Bring to mee my Ancestor's voice, whispering mysterious words
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Tears of white wax many candles shed in solemn quiet
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As I admire the Romanic stone glowing like ardent embers
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Beautiful stained-glass windows represent legends of yore
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Thruh the rosette I behold the crescente moon in the enchanting violet of dusk
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Shall I question the ancestral stars
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And the earthly spirit of the mounts
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Thruh the forest and its tangled boughs
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Hear the distant echoes of the past...
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Thou Mayst In Mee Behold
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| Crown Of Autumn |
