  The sky is like an opal, And the horizon’s ring Is yellow, like a band of gold, To hold so rich a thing. The wheat-fields are as fleecy As any cloud that blows, But tawny tufts of standing corn Prick lightly through the snows. Beside the drift-bound wind-mill A pearly shadow plays In tones of tender violet, And vague, elusive grays. And tinged with quiet olive The hedges fine and bare, Whose thorny masses down the road An alien softness wear. O, subtile chords of color Are fingered by the frost! Though touched and tuned to colder key, No grace of earth is lost. For see! a deep red ruby The opal heaven grows, And yonder pool of ice is one Great golden-hearted rose!
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