Alcyone and Morpheus

Am I entranced, forlorn night fall?
Son of the morning star,
Faint as Aeolus, whispered me,
Blowing through my malachite shawl;
Faint as a whisper that's withered away
Blowing through my malachite shawl.

Stones are rounded by force, my dear.
Sea-glassed son of the sky
Covered my flesh with a gentle veneer 
Of porcelain and marble alike;
With auric pulses preserving my name,
And a voyage no longer alive.

To be Calypso, to embalm -
Honey and silver wine.
Preserve my lapse, ethereal falls,
Beneath the robes of the divine;
Limply drifting, the white lilies sink,
Petals rush in with the tide. 

Your plumes will cradle your father, my love;
Seven dawns will be still.
And through your malachite shawl will come
A dilating tranquil revere
For the smoother stones, captured in space
Between your flight and fear.