Ashy

She had an ashy color.

Still is he sullein, still he lowres and frets, Twixt crimson shame, and anger ashie pale,

Tell her that sicknesse, with her ashie hand, Hath swept away the beauty from my cheekes,

Again the operation; again the narcotic; again some return of colour to the ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of healthy sleep.

Beyond that black clot the sea lay, pale with last ashy gleam of day.

Ye heauenly spirites, whose ashie cinders lie Vnder deep ruines, with huge walls opprest,

[…] where yet the Embers glow, Wide o’er the Pyle the sable Wine they throw, And deep subsides the ashy Heap below.

[…] I saw her sitting on the hearth in a ragged chair, close before, and lost in the contemplation of, the ashy fire.

He lit the paper until it burned to an ashy film.

It was summer and his pants were short, so the pickle juice made clean streams down his ashy legs[…]