Spirits of the night abound,
They cross the sky without a sound,
Unhindered by the tortured leaves
On branches bent in icy breeze.
An eerie light through crevice creeps,
And falls upon the one that sleeps.
A tender kiss, a fleeting chance,
Permits her soul once more to dance.
But fickle moon is towed away,
Leaving just the ghosts to play.
Then keeping vigil from on high,
Old owl emits a haunting cry.
Fair maid, she sleeps on undisturbed
By wailing wind and screeching bird.
No lightning flash, no clap of thunder,
Can wake her from this ancient slumber.
For she, and all six feet around,
Are never troubled by the sound.
(The Sleeping Beauty – A detail from the painting by Sir Edward Burne-Jones)