The Sable Sacrament

With pansies of mourning delight
And posies shaded bright,
Waning souls convene the last. 
For our mother of ebony sight,
The mistress of our midnight,
We present the nightingale past.
 
"Come,
Let us bask in your presence.
Sweet Oedipus, mask your bane essence!
Merry Mother Dusk, drop the discerning dawn;
Strive as transmundane, 
And sew the feather to the lawn. "
 
 

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