Higgledy piggledy,
snowmelt is patchily
greening the fields, and the
trees are in bud.
Earth is remade by the
change of the seasons. The
rivers return to the
riverbeds' mud.
Spirits of nature come
all unapparelled and
dance unabashedly,
joyous at play.
Hope for no permanence:
nonsempiternally,
years, like the moment, are
rushing away.
After the frost is the
warmth of the spring, but it's
trampled by summer, as
greenery wilts—
slain in its turn by the
heliocyclical
bountiful autumn, then
winter's white quilts.
All that is lost to the
seasons' revolving, though,
moon after moon in their
time will restore;
we, when we die, like the
mythocanonical
heroes and kings, will be
dust evermore.
No one can say if the
gods will capriciously
grant us the morrow, and
maybe they won't.
All that you give to your
heart, all you love, will be
lost to your heirs on the
day that they don't.
Once you are gone and your
shadow is facing its
judgement in death and the
sentence is passed,
never, my friend, will your
family, eloquence,
piety, anything,
save you at last.
Even Hippolytus,
famously virtuous,
dear to Diana, in
death must remain;
Theseus too had to
leave his Piríthoüs
love-unavailingly
Lethe-enchained.
kianamaiart
yousharknotpass
blakekathryn
snowghoul
gracieabrams
germansingergirl
