I am made of sweet September evenings

Spent seeping onto pages through a pen-point,

With my imagination — the fat, golden spider —

Spinning madly the silvered webs of thought

Where words, like dew-drops, were slung

Suspended in a world of my design.

For words are the dew-fall of my heart,

A shimmering veil reflecting in a thousand facets

The eye that lights upon it, but abstracts

The soul beyond it