Not as canvas but as frame

the eye and hand do make the day,

which with the Sun unbeckoned came

and at its want will fade away.

 

Between the rise and fall of light

in all that comes and all that goes,

a wealth of life befalls our sight

that none before could surely know.

 

And in that fragile frame of time

our brush strokes fill the fleeting page,

which with its turn comes close to fine

to paint the picture of an age