Pacific Winter

The quietly sipping rain that sucks the rose

Dangles from a cloud and then is gone.

The mists bow low, and falling prone disclose

Towers and cities made of violet stone.

The air with one quick flash is lit within,

And every flower is limpid on her stem,

And crystal bushes shudder and begin

To disengage their rainbows gem from gem.

The trees look downward from green galleries

And bless the garden with a plumy nod,

While I in vain, with slow and mortal eyes,

Run to outrun the presence of the god

Who paused an instant here and left behind

His fugitive cameo upon my mind.