A flotilla of clouds by its flocculence lightly defines 
That purity of azure. Clouds by Tiepolo. 
Earth, beneath, by Midas. Whose shining pleasure 
Is in gold only, sometimes in a parent of gold or in golden siblings. 
His huge orb, roseate gold, was lately a maple 
In a green summer. These mulberry satin weaves, 
Tinged with a lesser flagrance, were simple leaves where 
Dogwood's ivory sprang; they chime like crystals 
Of a parcel-gilt chandelier, in a hall rich with crimsons. 
That oak in August spoke giant words, but was never as now 
Sovereign, never so roundly sounded 
Such resonance of bronze: a gold sombred, 
Tuned to the chord of autumn. It will pass, 
Is passing. Yet in this cool November light 
The vibrance lives, lives as if it could never cease to hold 
The wonder, as if it would both spend and keep 
The essential gold, tell over and over the glory 
That cannot be told.