The sun's light grows cold;
its embers, like clouds of flame,
are put away.
Blue becomes black, black becomes dream.
The moths begin their night-journey.
The moon is but a god of borrowed vesture.The sun's light grows cold;
its embers, like clouds of flame,
are put away.
Blue becomes black, black becomes dream.
The moths begin their night-journey.
The moon is but a god of borrowed vesture.
