The Pastellette

“The pastelle is too strong,” said he.
“Lo! I will make it fainter yet!”
And he wrought with tepid ecstasy
A pastellette.

A touch—a word—a tone half caught—
He softly felt and handled them;
Flavor of feeling—scent of thought—
Shimmer of gem—
That we may read, and feel as he
What vague, pale pleasure we can get
From this mild, witless mystery,—
The pastellette.