Yesterday's painting,
Hung up in splendor,
Like molten beauty, steaming off the horizon,
Like distilled glory crying out:
Hosanna! Hosanna!
Beautiful are the lips of the Lord,
Justice and glory drip like honey on His breath,
He utters it and it is so.

A heavy cold is about,
The very manifestation of violent stillness,
Uncaring of the ember it devours like a lamb,
Impassive to the dancing lights that fall dull in its maw.

Just as the old king said,
A time for all things under the Sun,
For the pleasant rays,
And voracious blight.

A corroding of pipes and stripping of bricks,
Cracking mud when the chilly night pursues,
The cold days are few,
Yet now they begin again.