As twilight falls, the cooling glade falls still.
Late breezes softly shift the leaves upon the trees,
And restless shadows flicker like moths upon the mould.

The silvery fingers of the early Moon probe down into the wood.
And great boughs part to catch its image on the pool.

Then she appears, her moonlit face amidst the leaves and shadows,
A fleeting image glimpsed, then into shade withdrawn.
Forbidding in her countenance, yet beautiful as well,
Long hair tumbling down between the roots and branches
And into the jet waters of the pool.

Still silence settles over her domain.
No leaves rustle – the branches sway no more
The sacred water in the pools as still and smooth as ice:
A darkened sanctuary now hers alone –
Her mystic secrets safely kept within the sacred grove.