Silas

This poem
Of fiery flames and halls of old,
Of things that scare, and tales untold,
Of birds that sang and Spring that sprang

Up on her feet, following the road
To the meadows sweet, jump over a moat,
Where no soul her song can hear
Not foul nor blessed, not horse or bear
Like the Fire itself she dances there
Knowing it not; the morn is here