How could this cosmic autumn be so fair?
as falling, every beauty ceased to be
but little more than flowers at my feet
there doomed to die and whither endlessly.
And who could help but weep to see it go?
as melancholy seasons take their turn
to die one to the next, and in the flame
of Time’s dread passing leave the world to burn.
The leaves, the days, the years all pass me by,
the stars once hung through heaven drift away,
and in the quiet space behind the breeze
there’s but the empty sound of ending days.
It’s all so soon, this flowering of the world;
we’re blown away as soon as we’re unfurled.