Once, in finesse of fiddles found I ecstasy,
In a flash of gold heels on the hard pavement.
Now see I
That warmth�s the very stuff of poesy.
Oh, God, make small
The old star-eaten blanket of the sky,
That I may fold it round me and in comfort lie.
A slash of Blue--
A sweep of Gray--
Some scarlet patches on the way,
Compose an Evening Sky--
A little purple--slipped between--
Some Ruby Trousers hurried on--
A Wave of Gold--
A Bank of Day--
This just makes out the Morning Sky.