Grieve Not

Grieve not that winter masks the yet quick earth,

        Nor still that summer walks the hills no more;

        That fickle spring has doffed the plaid she wore

To swathe herself in napkins till rebirth.

These buddings, flowerings, are nothing worth;

        This ermine cloud stretched firm across the lakes

        Will presently be shattered into flakes;

Then, starveling world, be subject to my mirth.

I know that faithful swift mortality

        Subscribes to nothing longer than a day;

        All beauty signals imminent decay;

And painted wreckage cumbers land and sea.

I laugh to hear a sniveling wise one say,

“Some winnowed self escapes this reckless way.”