Poetry Archives

So fair, that all the morning aches
        With such monotony!
So brief, that sadness breaks
        The brittle spell.

Nothing so fair, nothing so brief:
        The sun leaps up and falls.
The wind tosses every leaf:
        Every leaf dies.

Blossom, a white cloud in the air,
        Is blown like a cloud away.
Must all be brief, being fair?
        Nothing remain?

Yes, night and that high regiment
        Of stars that wheel and march,
Ever their bright lines bent
        To a secret thought;

Moving immutable, bright and grave,
        Fair beyond all things fair;
Though all else vanish, save
        Imagination’s dream.