Midas at Sunset   

by A. E. Stallings

 A. E. Stallings
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Midas at Sunset



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Reflects upon the pool
Where at his touch recoil
The ripples now to foil,
And fountains unspool
Beads in plaited strings.
The light lengthens again,
Beaten fine and thin.
He turns back to his things
In halls aglint with gilt
And once again reviews
Pears no mouth can bruise,
Roses that will not wilt,
While in the hearth a fire
That no sparks ignite
Gives neither heat nor light.
As the night grows nigher,
He begins to see
Nothing can purloin
The sun’s daily coin
Or keep its currency.
Dusk tenders its grief 
Along the window sill:
The air rings pure and chill.
The trees shed their gold leaf.

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