She feathered the sky
     in purple down

With pink across it
    broadly thrown

Stitched of golden sunset tones.

Standing guard in silhouette
Idled trappings days beget,

Slighting eyes,
All lost in this surprise.

Ever playful bird
Reflects upon the soggy sand,
Motionless, moved, unheard.

A rotted skiff which moans
In evening's chill,
Hushed and still

Sleepy calm of grassy whispers
Robe of dunes in painted vespers
Lulling on the ground

Bent of ripples fixed on glass
Wavered clouds that slowly pass
Echo on the sound.

Everything of God or man
In awe,
The artist's hand.

But tempests surge to break the still
Blackened typhoons wielding.

Nothing rises to this will
Unless of art unyielding

Thus I see my nature's turn
Of maelstrom's lightening burned.

When placid coves of fair
And moving beauty hold this eye,

And nothing breathes
And nothing stirs

I know the hand is hers.