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THEY
are only an instant
The laughter – bright hours,
Faithless, inconstant,
Like fragrance of flowers,
Or the scent of the earth when the sunshine comes out
between showers.
They
are only a dreaming,
Those days of delight,
A hoping, a seeming,
A ghost in the night,
Or the sight of a bird that is passing and stops not
its flight.
They
are only a sighing,
Those whispers of love,
Unborn and undying,
The song of a dove,
Or the call of a star to star in the darkness above.
And
life is a sowing
In pastures of time,
That we harvest unknowing.
For golden-leaved prime
Is a sleeping in death, when the hands that have sown
are but slime.
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