The girl on the golden bike flew down the road,
The gold of her hair a torch that whipped and flowed.
Her face in the sunrise flashed a golden fire
As on down the hill she flew to her desire.
Down into dark she flew, down into mist,
Down to a little lake that night yet kissed.
And then she stopped, got off, unclasped her board,
And waited for her golden, liquid hoard.
The earth turns, the sky burns, and lo! with matchless might
The golden, gleaming water overflowed her sight!
Wide wat’ry flame, high fiery wave, all about her sprang!
The birth of day, in boundless play, into her being sang!
So still she sat, so still upon still rock,
One might have thought her blinded by the shock.
But no! Her hand, it moves, her brush sweeps true,
As if they knew themselves what they should do!
Out, out she gazes, sees what’s there to see,
Imprisoned with her joy, impaled and free!
Heroic this sight is I’m so glad to draw;
The heroine has made my pen her law.
Thye earth turns, the sky burns, the fiery fountain dies,
And still the golden girl, she does not rise.
Oh, what is the work that now outshines the sun?
And what is the glory I have seen begun?