On a cobblestone path down on Siebert Street,
An old man trudged deep in the snow.
'Twas early morn and the sun warmed his back
As he trod along ever so slow.

His shop was just up at the end of the street
Where he made multi-coloured glass panes.
And people would come from miles around,
For his windows they wished to attain.

He'd say, "It's not colours or shapes,
But it's the magic I put in each one."
Then he'd say, "Careful and choose a really fine spot
That's been kissed by the dancing sun."

His shoppe, Coloured Panes, was cool to the feel
As he opened its massive glass door.
But soon it was pleasantly warm inside
From the coal stove in back of the store.

He sat down to work with the tools of his trade:
Knippers, soldering iron and lengths of came.
The old master crafter began to place glass
In a tailor-made oak wooden frame.

He worked the new window an hour or more,
Then heard soft tinklings of bell.
In dashed a girl with red-brown curls
And declared, "My name is Estelle.

I've heard if I come around ten in the morn
That a glorious sight can be seen.
I've heard that your colors just jump alive
And they'll dance...in a colorful beam."

"Well, Miss, you've certainly come on time!
Come, sit here and wait, if you please.
The dancing sun's nearly here, my dear,
With its colours your heart to appease."

They waited, listening, as Grandfather's clock
Counted second by second in time.
The silent swish of pendulum's sway
Was really in truth, most sublime.

"One minute more, it's coming, can you see?"
Said the old man with tears in his eyes.
"Look, look Miss, here they come now!"
As the colours began to arise.

First, glorious yellow dipped deeply
And curtsied before the pair.
Red swooped in, Indian Chief style
And danced upon the stairs.

Deepest purple rose elegantly, smoothly,
Embracing Estelle's smiling face,
Then glided off in purest form
Of beautiful regalia's grace.

Shy, sky blue slowly waltzed for them,
Twirling tiny trails of stardust in his wake.
Then seafoam green swam languidly,
Rolling as if on Glistening's Lake.

All at once, the colours stilled.
The old master held forth his hand as if in limbo
And one by one, they disappeared -
Single file, into the unfinished window.

So you see, it's not the colours or shapes;
But the magic he puts in each one.
So do be careful...and choose a fine spot -
That's been kissed, by the dancing sun.