The last in a 12-part series on colour.
Then a wind blew;
And he who had forgot he moved
Lonely amid the green and silver morning weather,
Aware of clouds and trees
Gleaming and white and shafted, shaken together
And blown to music by the ruffling breeze.
Like flush of wings
The moment passed: he stood
Dazzled with blossom in the swaying wood;
Then he remembered how, through all swift things,
This mortal scene stands built of memories,—
Shaped by the wise
Who gazed in breathing wonderment,
And left us their brave eyes
To light the ways they went.
Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967), The Old Huntsman and Other Poems (1918)