He fashioned in the heat of August noon. He wrought the tenderness of springtide eves Into the art that equably receives A summer or a sorrow as its boon. He looked across the rippled lake: a loon Dove suddenly, in the swift flight that leaves No trace, rose far, and in a voice that grieves Forever, called its mate. The early moon, A round white wraith, stole furtive through the skies Like fair Godiva, whom the relentless sun Brightened in beauty no man might behold. He watched the glimmer of the burnished thighs Of day, that over the western hills had run Unto her bed of amethyst and gold. |