The sky is like an opal,
And the horizon’s ring
Is yellow, like a band of gold,
To hold so rich a thing.
The wheat-fields are as fleecy
As any cloud that blows,
But tawny tufts of standing corn
Prick lightly through the snows.
Beside the drift-bound wind-mill
A pearly shadow plays
In tones of tender violet,
And vague, elusive grays.
And tinged with quiet olive
The hedges fine and bare,
Whose thorny masses down the road
An alien softness wear.
O, subtile chords of color
Are fingered by the frost!
Though touched and tuned to colder key,
No grace of earth is lost.
For see! a deep red ruby
The opal heaven grows,
And yonder pool of ice is one
Great golden-hearted rose!