Chamber of thorns, grotto of glass,
The icicles drip in a hidden pass;
Sharp as a barb, each flank cast its own flash;
The dancers are dwarfed in a frosty masked glow,
Down in a cavern of brandishing mirrors, hollowed and hallowed below;
Ensconced in a dwelling fit for the Divine,
The chandeliers jaggedly jutting and branching like vines,
Like copses of crystals sprawled over the sky;
Exceedingly dazzling, outdoing the Sun,
For the Sun in a feverish fit will one day lapse,
Yet endure this eternal ballroom of stateliest stillness, this heart of hum.
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