Goodnight

Goodnight sweet prince,
you served us well;
though the detail of your travails
was less than the sum of your return.
I oft will wonder on your steady gate,
the easy fall of sadness
as you peel away your gaze
from my fallen archangel.
If bliss were a virtue
then as pure as the snow be I;
my mind set for southern winds
along this meteorological test.
Look, I venture,
pointing east
and heads they turn,
expectant, hopeful.
I will sleep now,
my day run,
a race so true
that I bear will believe my own Mother!
And you, bright star,
will'st thou come back tomorrow?
Fair wind rest thee well
in Mother Nature's pure embrace.

A X