Aloft the ocean, ashen silk. Above
the hilled horizon, long and lavender laced;
The milken moon, a Spider Lily, dove
like nested, pale nor painted, fair nor faced,
a-sail nor sunken, halved and hangs, as lone
the Lily hangs above the stream below.
Suspended moon, upon your splendid throne,
and Lily shone in soft the rippled flow;
you both reflect the once and fallen Son.
The Son who watched from tall his timbered tomb
and hung His head amidst a death begun,
who bleeding wept, and bowed amidst His bloom.
I trace the moon, His high and hanging crown,
the Spider Lily, blossomed gazing down.
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