The night is stretched thin to paint a canvas
the gold coin of dusk, with finality,
silently slips into heaven's coffers
Could the light of fallen kings truly be
distant patrons emptying their own pockets?
Ev'ry dawn, I count one blessing greatest:
our patron is not a stingy crook, but
a warm and passionate benefactor
who elects to pour his purse each new day.

Yet even with my head affixed in the clouds
I cannot forget that my feet tread dust
and wandering thoughts must return to me,
for it is Earth where they should be, and still
further they should rest, upon the person whom
I know the best, and attenuated thus:
to search her mind and heart, and scour all
the distant lands to find the smallest art,
means, or manner, to build a solid trust.
Then, like the donors glinting in the skies,
I'll place my single, golden, blazing coin
into the surest vault of human life
the faith and love, the happy sacrifice,
the sacred bond between a man and wife.