The Midnight Smile was worth a rose, not prickly plants like teasel.
She saw the sky of evening as a backdrop for an easel:
The perfect after dinner canvas, there to decorate
With every precious concept that her mind could illustrate.
She painted it, but not with pictures, in her nocturne-session;
With words to show what came from her interior impression:
So many words, that those her age would never think to use
In combinations following her complication's cues.
She met the Dazzle-visage once, and found herself distracted.
His captivating light seized hold. But then it was retracted.
He couldn't see the lasting value of the Midnight Smile,
And seemed to lose her number in his fickle memory dial.
Still dazzled momentarily, she found the canvas duller
(For months, in fact). She couldn't see the presence of the colour,
By day or night, until she came across the Wandering Blue,
Whose accidental precedents did something to imbue.
Repainting evening canvasses with thoughts, which all reminded
The Midnight Smile of how the Dazzle-visage glare had blinded
Her eyes, she saw the subject switch from anxiousness and fear
To something on the skyline, which had helped her vision clear.
The Blue was thankful she'd recovered. Then his words went yonder,
To draw a passing picture of the Smile, whom he'd still ponder:
Her skies would shine more than before the Dazzle came to stun,
If she just cast her vision high and met the Rising Son.