Touches

In heavens of rivered blue, that sunset dyes
  With glaucous flame, deep in the west the Day
  Stands Midas-like; or, wading on his way,
  Touches with splendor all the twilight skies.
  Each cloud that, like a stepping-stone, he tries
  With rosy foot, transforms its sober gray
  To burning gold; while, ray on crystal ray,
  Within his wake the stars like bubbles rise.
  So should the artist in his work accord
  All things with beauty, and communicate
  His soul's high magic and divinity
  To all he does; and, hoping no reward,
  Toil onward, making darkness aureate
  With light of worlds that are and worlds to be.