A Sequel To Midsummer- WIP!

I stand here now, where once the willow trees
Would lean with grave upon the wind. But now
The sun makes light of naught but sullen breeze-
To such straits Nature fallen!- to thus bow

To her patron and her king. So have we fared,
In circumstance reduced. Once proud and fey,
We swelled with man's belief, until men dared
in surety to surpass their gods. So'st day

Hast come in light unbeseeming twilight.
Yea, twilight gods are we, shrunk in dark gloom
our stature. Men dwarf our widowed might,
forge faith anew-and shun the earthy loam.

The tuneful hound is silent, day is cold.
Delved to the bones the barren earth must yield
up the ghost. Once warmed earth, the cool mold
That forged men is forged in turn. Doom is sealed.

Aye, our doom, for men have closed their minds.
Anew their world, suited to their fancy
Have they made. Iron bones, tight-shuttered blinds
Made 'gainst our kind. Aged gallancy,

Dated love. The forest dims. The cold ore,
deadened in earth's forge, heeds not our sway.
Shadow's shadows are we made. The old lore
Is forgotten, as night becomes soft day.

For soft and cold is day, a lovely frost
That spreads daily o'er our dominions.
While we, beliking hawks whose grace is lost,
Must suffer boys to pluck our pinions.

yet once we ruled the leaf loam, nature's will.
Our domain spanned argent moon to land.
Then it was that no farmer would dare till
Our greenwoods, nor freeman lift a hand.

Lest the fey folk come in the midst of night,
To make all his rough mirth become his grief.
Could we not dance in thunder, bid stars light?
Who would dare to greet us with face unlief?

We beckoned trees to grow, to sink their roots;
Called the woodland, plains and grass our home.
We who built great henges with our flutes,
By singing stone o'er sea to root in loam.

So we made merry while the earth was young.
Why should we not? For life was all our sport.
Yet like a bow of yore once tightly strung
But lately slackened- we of fairy sort

Have dwindled, and our years have ran
With our graces.