I have touched the golden afternoon That crumbled in my hand like prisms, And all the tower's clocks Stopped between twilight's whims . . . Clouds lay sculptured As if an architect Locked in embrace with space, Forbade all imitations. You grope for form To hold in memory: A falling frond, a golden stone Spotted with agates, Pale Picasso hands, Or a Gothic molded spire. But no pattern in mimetic, Horizons to the west fade, vanish, Glow again toward housetops As if a band of yellow orioles Flash and changes to cardinals . . . Delusions never fail to distress, You touch this misty window, The lyric dies Leaving mottled moments in your eyes.