No withered day
apart wastes its aimless
Rush on felling
leaves too soon; the lakes speed
No surface still
or soft unseasoned, freed,
Retouched by
sun’s rebuffs alone. No test
Survives the clock,
nor tested held above
The greed the
grains demand; no music made
Can go unheard,
untoned, untouched; no glade
Can winter-gaunt
remain when spring’s green glove
Slips soft above
the sudden smells of life,
And twists the
husks of hemp to smiles beneath
The frozen
leaves’ black edge, and sees the snow-teethed-
Grin, dull, decay
before the blue light’s knife.
Spring
again? What is all this waiting worth?
It comes when it
will come and knows no haste. . .
But just this
once, let’s face it first and taste
Its joy with all
the fools of earth.
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