I will have me a symphony of coloring. I will enmesh me in the noon sun’s gold and wind about me the moonlight’s silver sheen. I will dream in a gown made of the haze of a summer evening twilight, and I will have robe on robe of the sky’s deep blue, and I will line them with clouds of ermine, and from their trailing folds red stars will gleam. I will pluck the green from the treetops, where wild birds nest and sing, and in the weaving I will ensnare a song. And when Sorrow is my guest, I will wear a gown made of the cold, gray mist.