Sometimes It Is a Glance Or a Word's Sudden Strike That Rubs Upon Us Something of the Lost Art of Soul's Interior Design

Beneath a darkly deepened sky,

Into silence's paradox
Comes Hypnos, leaving ajar

How from lyric lilt and lull

So many serene and deeper voices,
Hushed by daylight,

Are born and rise to plead
On behalf of stillness

Which souls still carry within.

While sudden women clothe
Their ears, wrists, and limbs

In added strings and streams,

Bearing weights of pageantic gold,
As though they thought Eros
Were of another sun.