Not that Miles was all about money.
The walls of the lodge were argent,
Argent, and flecked with gold
Mosaics of gemstone tiles, frescoes
In all their lush extravagance,
Paintings of precious metals
On stone, marble
The floors, reflected in ceilings, the whole hotel
An elaborate tomb
By the purring sea.
Miles was an artist of comfort, the inn
His masterpiece. Outside the front,

In bas relief, above the arches and the architrave,
The frieze, in frozen splendor
Matron of the island, mother
Of flowers. Her face was fat and thick
And rich, her eyes were glazed
With goodness, her complexion
Pale from chiseled cheek to marbled gaze,
A Parian nymph in palisade, watcher
Of the crashing shores, but only by the spectral vision
Of a floating ghost, an apparition
In the loneliness of flowers, a quiet circle of daisies,
Gold, her glowing hair, grave as the lakeside scene

Below: the queen, the mother of flowers, bold
In jade and retinue, strewing the seeds
Of anthoi by willows, flora to lichen
The dripping shores. Quite glum, or serious, serene
All touched their foreheads,
The faintest suggestion of hills
In lead, the somber tones
Moved only by a grace, a freedom from bone in the act
Of scattering flowers:
Jasmine was garnet,
The lily was ivory, the wild amaranth
An emerald amethyst; so perfect in cut, shape, and form
That it lightened the storm of nymphs, not mourn
-ful dryads in procession, weeping for Adonis' dearth,
But naiads in digression, pale among the sparkling bursts
Of flowers, springing everywhere flowers
In great abundance, regenerate hope.