'Time is its own tragedy' said the man on the moon,
September sunlight, a harvest alight all through June,
Plough that are lonely, the darkness they see burnt away,
Banners are flaming so brightly the night could be day,
Where are the dancers whodanced through the night round the fire?
Tree tops that sang from the dusk to the cold witching hour,
Henbane and clover in potions of wine old and new,
As lost to time as the old maid whom love never knew
We were so eager and youthful and reckless and keen,
Strong as the badger that digs in the stream for the bream,
Those days are gone All the old gods are gone away dead,
Vitality of the stream and the tree has been bled
'Time is its own tragedy' said the man on the moon,
September sunlight, a harvest alight all through June,
