The seasons send their ruin as they go,
For in the spring the narciss shows its
Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,
And in the autumn purple violets blow,
And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;
Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom
And this grey land grow green with summer
And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.
But what of life whose bitter hungry
Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless
Covers the days which never more return?
Ambition, love and all the thoughts that
We lose too soon, and only find
In withered husks of some dead memory.
