Lost Colors

By George Sterling

Grieve not because, ephemeral, they fade.
    Unlike turquoise of cloudless lake or sky,
    And pearls that shall be splendid tho we die:
Soon from the jewels of the frost are made
The summer's amber and the vernal jade
    Or hues abandoned at the year's first sigh;
    And. spinners wait unseen by any eye.
Weaving from dust the lily of the glade.

Beyond our loss is mighty recompense
Of new-born loveliness for soul and sense:
    From night the gossamers of morning glow,
        Thrown earthward from the everlasting looms;
        Still on the northern verge of sunset blooms
A rose that was disastrous long ago.

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