NIGHTLY HONEY

On a secluded hill, a voice soulful sings—
a cosmic aubade for the trees long-lamenting;
in the grove, played on some nightly strings.
As my soul is keen to this sorrow’s unfolding,
enchanted I amble on its shadeless soil-adust.

For I seek the throne of rent-twigs erected;
by the pollarded, my heart consoles—passing
to love’s awaiting pyre, as it is expected;
at beauty—with some beryl-gold attending—
whereby it melts by my fondness’ flame.

As these golden, molten tears the torrid scree
water, its cobblestones hued in kindred shade;
in the flame, a vision of a cheek—moonlit I see.
So bristled, and murmured as it quickly fades,
prolonged the sorrow’s path by memories called.

Up the barrow proceeding, I reach its crest—
whereon the unpruned tree, standing still,
lilting the water’s fate, muses on wishful tryst;
led by longing’s phantom, beneath it I find
a colony of generous yet famished honeybees.