It Gilds the Trees

It gilds the trees in tinges.

It travels on the air.

It wreaths the clouds in flashiness

and rarifies the fair.

–

The branches dance in golden;

bright wonders from afar-

the treasure storehouse glidenwave

from some ancient star.

–

The world’s a riot fire

the sky’s a-dance with flame.

The clouds are smoke puffs hanging there

so one but so unsame.

–

And gradually as life light

effuses through the sky,

the golden burns itself to blue

and, bashful, then to shy.

–

So we about our business

and plunder through the day,

forgetting all the skylit coins

we drop along the way.

–

melenoria