Love, as wayward
Belated stars, or as an early moon, lured dayward,
Your now-grey eyes imbue you with a novel grey light:
Are you fairer?
It’s said that as a man ascends, and air gets rarer,
And if you see me set agasp, as in those reaches
Colors ebb in,
To find your cream turned opal, and your briar, ebon,
Love, still shorter
Will come my breath, when to an even rarer quarter
Is carried by transcolorations yet entirer.