The oak leaves fall
Like silent benedictions
Closing Autumn's gorgeous ritual,
And we, upborne by worship,
Lift our eyes to the altar of distant hills.

Beloved
How can I know
What gods are yours,
How can I guess the visions of your spirit,
Or hear
The silent prayers your heart has said?

Only by this I feel
Your gods akin to mine,
That when our lips have met
On this last golden Autumn afternoon
They have confessed in silence
Our kisses were less precious than our dreams.

Today, our passion drowned in beauty,
We turn away our faces toward the hills
Where purple haze, old incense,
Spreads its veil.


Yareth at Solomon's Tomb

At last
Your search is at an end,