Amid the darkened light there is a tree
whose pointed shape depicts the chapel’s spire
centered in the distant town below.
Above this province with its vale aswoon,
the wind is shown to have its own esprit;
it reels upon itself with mad desire,
traveling between the stars that grow
in self-concentric circles, as the moon.
The wind, the stars, and moon in painted plea,
encompassing the realm with midnight mire,
dream in lunacy; they mean to slow
the world entire -morning comes too soon.
The bedlam of this Starry Night is set
on canvas, dried, and dampened of its threat.
[This message has been edited by zbaby (edited August 16, 2003).]