The grey-white sky does not depress my view:
Most beautiful of things do turn to grey;
How does the sky wear age as age does new;
When colored by the sun or fresh spring day.
Today may not be spring and sky's not young
And softly from the winds do whisper not,
Yet is from imperfections greater sung;
Preserving beauty from a dreary rot.
I wonder if this lens is shared by you
But is in eyes of yours that look on me:
Surveying all my blemishes as true
And truth has beauty, beauty's love that be.
Yes! I adore this play that drapes the sky
I look on them, as you do me your eye.