A Chord Of Colour

My Lady clad herself in grey,     That caught and clung about her throat;     Then all the long grey winter day     On me a living splendour smote;     And why grey palmers holy are,     And why grey minsters great in story,     And grey skies ring the morning star,     And grey hairs are a crown of glory.     My Lady clad herself in green,     Like meadows where the wind-waves pass;     Then round my spirit spread, I ween,     A splendour of forgotten grass.     Then all that dropped of stem or sod,     Hoarded as emeralds might be,     I bowed to every bush, and trod     Amid the live grass fearfully.     My Lady clad herself in blue,     Then on me, like the seer long gone,     The likeness of a sapphire grew,     The throne of him that sat thereon.     Then knew I why the Fashioner     Splashed reckless blue on sky and sea;     And ere 'twas good enough for her,     He tried it on Eternity.     Beneath the gnarled old Knowledge-tree     Sat, like an owl, the evil sage:     'The World's a bubble,' solemnly     He read, and turned a second page.     'A bubble, then, old crow,' I cried,     'God keep you in your weary wit!     'A bubble--have you ever spied     'The colours I have seen on it?'