A dash of light between the clouds,
Behind them a raging spite.
I never thought this day would come to pass.
Now, I look on it bleached-white.
I look on it like the maple leaves,
I look on it like the Flood,
The seven Scythes of serpent's Hill,
My palace has turned to mud.
I watch from the old Canyon,
Into which I did fall,
The funereal high-flying march,
Softly tolls the Wedding Bell.
The bell in all its macabre,
The bell in all its spite,
Says that I married to none;
Alas! My only heart,
Was the poor wife whom I did fight.
I have not seen the sun rise,
I have only watched it set,
All my diamonds fell to pieces,
This sullen sun shines yet.
And when in trance I wonder,
Who made this misery veil?
I fall short into a thunder,
And struggle to lightly exhale.
But once in yonder grove,
An apple tree did climb;
The not-so-sullen sun shined down,
Ripening fruit o' mine.
Ah, this is a foul, unknowing beast,
Of whose schemes this world is set.
This sullen sun has fall'n from grace;
His apple was a fool's bet.
Crushed to cider dust,
The sickly colour of our light.
Vainglorious and indolent,
And cannot repay its debt.
Sullen with malice,
Sullen to the hinge,
No apple lurks upon this tree:
Sullen sun-dreams of revenge.