186. To Blossoms
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,Why do ye fall so fast?Your date is not so past,But you may stay yet here a-while,To blush and gently smile;And go at last.
What, were ye born to beAn hour or half’s delight;And so to bid good-night?’Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,Merely to show your worth,And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where weMay read how soon things haveTheir end, though ne’er so brave:And after they have shown their pride,Like you, a-while;—they glideInto the grave.