You Sing Acrostic

No sound has broken gentler down    
in deafened glade of quiet,      
glad fable sung nor shanty wound,      
hymn mouthed ‘neath stain-glass agate.      
Trimmed modestly with earthen wings,      
impulsively, she warbles.      
Now trembled o’re the weightless air,      
gathered tall, the forest sings.      
Alabaster notes of marble,      
lonely bits of lunar bars,      
emboldened, flung at sharpest star.