I thought all poets are slaves of portents. They have set ideas on beautiful evenings such as this. This intriguing pink of eventide in the west — is this the hue of eventide? The sun took a sip of wine and put the same cup to the lips of the evening. She demurred and was coy but while protesting mildly, that she did not want any, she suddenly put her hand out for it. With that the cup fell down and this is the wine that was spilt.
