Formal Incantation

O watery sun decline
Defame the obdurate day
Or the ashen slaves of Phoebus
Will find me with a golden key

And bid me unlock the casket laid
Beneath the crumbling stairs
Where Jason's fleece awaits the day
Medea's art recurs.

The pianola's notes resound
Through the damp rain-sodden rooms
And I have naught I can repress
Against the anguish of the herbal flames

That flicker in the near zone
Of Hecate's naked plight.
O triune grace, I will not miss
Thee at the closure of night.
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