Classic Poem

I left my desk as the sun went down,
Tinting the walls and roofs of town,
Which glimmered softly, red and brown.

I returned again in the morning light—
(Behold a painter who paints at night!)
Every roof of the town was white.

White were the roofs as frosted cake,
Or the woolly sheep that the toymen make,
And I knew that Winter was wide awake.