In streams of liquid light
the low sun pours its glory through the clouds:
first in bright white rays
seeming just ahead,
then streaming in bright cascades that split
the silken shadowed clouds,
fringing them with golden fire,
brightening them with celestial glow.
From the vast heavens above
pour down the beauteous rays
in three great fountains,
defying the gathered clouds in the Kansas sky,
while we pass on
with a steady pace—
on to our next destination.
Cannot the weary traveler
pause on his grinding way
to see and wonder at
the rivers of golden light?
But most pass on,
and we, a happy few,
are left to gaze and drink the lovely draught,
in memory for others,
till time and it pass on.
Huge and red, like an agéd sun,
sets the fiery phoenix of the day.
Low and long it hangs
over the wide horizon,
while white cotton clouds with gentle touch
wipe its swollen, bloody face.
Shedding a rosy light
he leaves his traces there
on their soft edges.
Lower sinks the sun,
drenched with crimson,
through a creamy sea of clouds
all splashed with pink,
and edged with gold-vermillion,
till only a thin edge of the deep red sphere
is left, glowing,
like a bright ruby among a thousand pearls.
it is gone.
Where last beneath the cloudy billows
sank the departing sun,
remains a rosy glow
spreading and slowly flowing
over the azure sky,
like glistening scales on a dragon’s back,
or light-tipped feathers on goshawks’ wings,
is all mottled and streaked with clouds.
There, where the rose-red glow is brightest,
near its source,
the sky is etched,
scratched with streaks of crimson,
as if some god had used it for a slate,
and written there but one word:
The eternal, everlasting if,
that cries out down the ages till the end:
if you have hope indeed,
then you will see me come again.