How fast the yellow crocus fades
We look for every spring,
As if a precious dearness were
The shortness of a thing.

How fragile is the golden leaf
Beside the icy lawn
That won't survive an April week.
'Tis here. 'Tis here. 'Tis gone.

Which if it were a hardy weed
And settled in to stay,
We'd likely hoe it under
Before the end of May.

Unlike antiques that wax with time
Whose patina is age,
We love a living thing the more
That cannot hold the stage.

Is brevity the soul of Love?
And all our dreams of heav'n
A sad misapprehension of
The golden Love we're giv'n?

No straight track leads to any star.
The Love that sends us forth
Is gravity that grabs the arc
And turns us back to Earth.

Though greatest joy is shortest lived,
Its tragic end doth prove
That we have lived it joyfully
And squandered not the Love.

And, O, my sons, I loved you well!
I know it by the pain
Of such a rapid passing
That will not come again,

Unless...there be a power in Love
Beyond all hope and fear?
As brings the golden crocus back
Along the house each year?