Saturnalia, worship of nature,
forbidden, gravely misunderstood.
Waiting for your maker's nod,
I stand forever in your magic wood.
Pleasing tracts of land,
gorgeous, again like the wild.
I brush against it;
the breeze is not mild.
Whether in the deepest dark,
or reflected in noon's light,
penetrating quintessence
always makes me bright.
And if you are afraid,
and you start to run,
don't worry, Chloris:
we're just having fun.
