poetry poem

it was the autumn of the year
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
lo! 'tis a gala night
will you glimmer on the sea?
her face is fair and smooth and fine
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
the long resounding marble corridors
no prey am i of poor thoughts
to the passionate lover
the swan existing
out of the deep and the dark
are you awake?