As East bears the sun aloft in her race,
Westward towards the horizon’s farewell,
no still life impression will true love trace
as its rich magenta’s sweet tales foretell.
Oftener lost like a hue hard to hold,
yet slumbering there where fair mists enshroud,
are dreams of a morn of amber and gold,
where heart outwears breast, ever strong, ever proud!
Ah, but sunsets serene ne’er sate, ne’er sear,
ne’er rest, though the gaze long outlasts the view
of vision rare, and we yet bless the mirror
of a perfect pear, one true r, ‘tis true ,
though nightly prisons and preying neglect
nibble and nag vestiges of respect.