The leaf-green fingers of spring's offspring
Have marred my memories of bright-eyed May
With furrows that tear further than fifty fathoms---
Sorrow, that savors of bittersweet verity:

That all days, Mays, sunshine, and seasons pass away,
And maybe even everlasting amaranths may fade.
For few forests retain their green garments forever
And any red, orange, or gold garb they do never.

Though my long, plotted loam of thoughts be
Still scored and overwrought with longing and agony,
Still I will relish and then attempt merely to remember
Beauty and truth, as all the keen stars wither to embers.

And I, like a wandering leaf, like a shadow from sunset fleeing, fleeting, will pray
That maybe some amaranths may not fade, as I vainly snatch at the slipping day.