A Winter Holiday

Excerpt from A Winter Holiday
A Winter Holiday
December in Scituate
Under a hill in Scituate,
Where sleep four hundred men of Kent,
My friend one bobolincolned June
Set up his rooftree of content.
Content for not too long, of course,
Since painter's eye makes rover's heart,
And the next turning of the road
May cheapen the last touch of art.
Yet also, since the world is wide,
And noon's face never twice the same,
Why not sit down and let the sun,
That artist careless of his fame,
Exhibit to our eyes, off-hand,
As mood may dictate and time serve,
His precious, perishable scraps
Of fleeting color, melting curve?
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