  Golden vines they, These thin lines of light, Climbing the sky-wall After the sun sank into sleep. Like rills, thread-like, Seen from a jutting rock Where air is dizzy And fancy infinite, free. What fiery wine Tingles in these vines Weaving golden arabesques On the pale evening sky? Ah, the heavens this hour Have drunk of sunset's ruby Wine For those golden cobwebs to weave Their magic of twilight dreams. |
|
