I am poor thing -

Made of glass, you might say -

Many-colored glass - red, green, blue

And black, rich yellow, bronze and brown,

And white, all flecked with drab

And gold - Oh, every hue

That you could think off,

Curiously streaked and mixed.

And when the light shines through -

You've seen the windows in a church?

You know the sudden glory, then

Still it depends just where

The light strikes - do you understand?

More like, you don't.

Perhaps I should have only said

That I'm a poet.