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Desespoir

Rating: 2.8
The seasons send their ruin as they go,
For in the spring the narciss shows its head
Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,
And in the autumn purple violets blow,
And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;
Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again
And this grey land grow green with summer rain
And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.

But what of life whose bitter hungry sea
Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night
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COMMENTS
Bob Bateup 25 February 2017
Nature is timeless but desperately life is not
1 0 Reply
Bob Bateup 24 February 2017
The beauty of life is all too short
1 0 Reply

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