On fair clouds, my coloured dreams scud,
Lot to achieve, none to appease,
Content in their state of unease,
Like butterflies on blooming bud.

Sometimes ochre like potter's mud
Poised to be shaped by fiery soul,
Or black like the sly night that stole
The golden sunbeams from its source.
A dash of green they're, in life's course,
When I'm pushed into a dark hole.