She must have used a slim delicate hand
To twist her gold onto this branching tree;
She tied it just so--that suspended strand--
That no winds will ever whisper it free.
"Introducing Shadows:"
Reads winter's cold marquee.
Its drone makes all the colors invisible to me.
But it will grow, that single beaming thread,
While its curling ends smile with the light;
Whoever you are--with sun's honeyed head--
Do you know your gold shines to me at night?
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