My Lady Clad Herself In Grey, That Caught And Clung About Her Throat; Then All The Long Grey Winter Day On Me A Living Splendour Smote; And Why Grey Palmers Holy Are, And Why Grey Minsters Great In Story, And Grey Skies Ring The Morning Star, And Grey Hairs Are A Crown Of Glory. My Lady Clad Herself In Green, Like Meadows Where The Wind-Waves Pass; Then Round My Spirit Spread, I Ween, A Splendour Of Forgotten Grass. Then All That Dropped Of Stem Or Sod, Hoarded As Emeralds Might Be, I Bowed To Every Bush, And Trod Amid The Live Grass Fearfully. My Lady Clad Herself In Blue, Then On Me, Like The Seer Long Gone, The Likeness Of A Sapphire Grew, The Throne Of Him That Sat Thereon. Then Knew I Why The Fashioner Splashed Reckless Blue On Sky And Sea; And Ere 'Twas Good Enough For Her, He Tried It On Eternity. Beneath The Gnarled Old Knowledge-Tree Sat, Like An Owl, The Evil Sage: 'The World'S A Bubble,' Solemnly He Read, And Turned A Second Page. 'A Bubble, Then, Old Crow,' I Cried, 'God Keep You In Your Weary Wit! 'A Bubble--Have You Ever Spied 'The Colours I Have Seen On It?'