A sheet of silver lace
Spreads across the glass,
But in the gaze of sunlight
Its loveliness will pass.

The morning bed of pearls,
Each sheathed in a shell of green,
By high day is snatched away
And not one drop is seen.

A friend whose name is dear,
Whose presence is part of home,
Too quickly is lost, I fear,
On the pretense of a whim.