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FROM my window I see them floating
Across the pale sapphire sky,
All silver and gold and crimson
In the glow that bids daylight die.
There they march on in great phalanxes
With outriders, one by one;
And rower, extend their columns,
Like bars, o'er the setting sun.
O dark clouds, o'er yon horizon
Ye press on the sun's bright face,
Like the weight of sorrow loading
My heart in its secret place.
And yet your ensanguined edges
Speak plain of your fairer side;
So perhaps my grief will lighten
With the shifting of time and tide.
—Donald A. Frascr.
Western, Field. Western Field - Sportsmans Magazine of the West. San Francisco: Western Field, 1907.
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