Gray Poem by William Rose Benet

Fold on fold the purple, crimson then—
Gold? I shook my head and turned away.
What? I turned and glared in that barbaric den.
'Gray!'

Ashes, rats! You cannot, cannot mean it, surely?
'Yes,' I chirped, 'I'm weary; I have had a day; One thing only suits me, purely and demurely—
Gray.'

Doves and twilight seas, fog and thistle-down,
Granite quarried too; pearl, with all array
Of colors quenched within. But you said—a clown!—
Gray!

'Yes, I understand; but you don't understand
I'm the clown of heaven and mean to have my way. Cut me cloak and doublet. This is my command—
Gray!'