At the height of the storm, the Moon walked in;
Her vaporous mantle swept the sill;
Veni, she whispered, stepped from the wind,
And filled the room with a glittering chill.
At the height of the storm, Neptune emerged;
Our vessel awash on raging seas,
He plucked and placed it in the lee,
And if he spoke to us, his words
Drowned in the wind as he submerged.
Faces glimpsed within the trees —
Hurrying shapes that turn the corner —
Gods of Antiquity leap from the frieze,
And leaving behind bewildered mourners,
Flee to what destinies they please.
At the height of the storm, the lights go out;
Trees have fallen on the lines;
The Gods of Old adventure about,
But hide their might in ambiguous signs.