Bleak indigo and velvet was the sky
That hung above that cold portentous noon
More chilling than the goddess of the moon
If she had bowed her sorrows down to die—
My own, I could not grief so sharp withhold
But wept as though the torrent ought to drown
Me in the rivers of her velvet gown
And leave me breathless on the stones and cold—
But blue is not my cloak, or yet my skin
As much as dark the tenor of the day
And when the storm had lastly passed away
I felt the night might swallow up my sin—
Now sorrow’s misery that spoke you grief
Forgiven falls in sunset’s sweet relief.
Art-Colored Glasses 