MELPOMENE’S SINGING PLACE

A lake,

Deep, dark…

Bordered

By low-hanging trees.

Boughs,

Rippling the waters

Flown

By a late-night breeze.

Fading stars foretell the coming

The dawn.

A dying moon-bird hovers.

Dryads call from woodland homes

Good-bye

To their naiad lovers.

Here,

Here Melpomene comes to sing

And through the forest about her ring

Her melancholy tales.