Such beauty captured near the library.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as what’s in the tree.
Helium foil coiled and prest
Against the arbor’s flowing crest;
Gold that looks at God all day,
And wind that crease her arms to pray;
Glitter that may in winter wear
A nest of pigeons in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
My poem brands me a fool who swoons,
But only God makes golden balloons.
The Golden Balloon, Fallen like Icarus via Author