A mighty day outpaced the clock,
Thrumming with a golden life to run,
Halting then the moon to chase the sun,
Meeting every barrier and lock,
And dauntless falling through,
Without ease but streaks of valor weren't so few.

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.