THE tiny thing of painted gauze that flutters in the sun
And sinks upon the breast of night with all its living done;
The unconsidered seed that from the garden blows away,
Blooming its little time to bloom in one short summer day;
The leaf the idle wind shakes down in autumn from the tree,
The grasshopper who for an hour makes gayest minstrelsy–
These–and this restless soul of mine–are one with flaming spheres
And cold, dead moons whose ghostly fires haunt unremembered years.
