from The Cameo Frame, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Over her grey and velvet dress
          Under her molten, beaten hair
Color of rose in mock distress
          Flushes and fades and makes her fair
Fills the air from her to him
          With light and languor and little sighs
Just so subtly he scarcely knows
Laughing lightning, color of rose.


And grey to rose, and rose to gold
          The color of day is twain, is one;
And he blinds his eyes that his heart may hold
          This cameo on the setting sun,
And lip and fingers and lip and lip
          Burn together and chill apart
And he turns his head as he sees her go,
Beautiful, pitiful, cameo.