As the page turns it glows gold,
Gilded in its going with a glitter
That outshines pale sunlit day.
I scramble up the white sheet
To gaze like Lot’s wife on that
Glorious burning city, at its zenith
In the eye of she who leaves behind.
This page has left the consolation
Of its day of grandeur arising
When no longer bound between
Golden fire and gleaming cloud,
Allowed its due of glazing gold
When all its light is past.