religious poem

for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
i had over-prepared the event
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
i have to say good-night
it was the autumn of the year
all down the years
the light withdrawn
in the cloud-gray mornings
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
to come so soon to this imagined dark
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
he speaks not well
with joy and wonder