One evening, like any other,
I happened to notice the sky.
Whatever I was doing, I had forgotten her;
my eyes, so eager for beauty, had looked away.
But that next moment...
who can tell what I saw?
Even my own memory is imperfect:
It was a lake of fire,
held by its glowing heat
over a sea like rolling steel;
it was a river of luminous wine
poured in a furnace of bright warmth.
The sea itself lapped, like a man half-asleep,
dreamily curling, and uncurling, onto the shore...
