Wrong End of the Sunset.

Thin fans of ice ferns spread upon the panes, A tithe of the chill which bores a cool, lithe Screw through the fitful veins Awake among the greenery. Hothouse Roses rubify, as their spines Pick out the sun from shadow, every second snaking 2ce its light. This awful night -- done: The time is come When the bright arms are taken to the Breast of a sleepless knight who clocks each fraction On his shield. One pitiful third of life is Spent asleep: and now That restless mystery through bleary Intemperate eyes dawns and clips the cycle, Seen through leaf-green slides and gelid bowers: Cold rosulated seconds bud To full-blown hours.