What is the pith of days that gives them worth?
Is it the emerald green of an ashtray
Dazzled by a falling sun's moted ray,
Or the faint lingering light in the birth
Of evening when shadows move and the sky's gray
Meets the roseate flower of setting day?
Is it this, or a beauty of any choice?
The jewel of loveliness is simply told.
It streaks the sky in a bird's tender flight,
Touches a window in the sun's parting hold--,
And flashes like fire through the body's bright
Mesh of veins to leave an exquisite mold
On the soft tablet of or hidden sight.