Grieve Not

Grieve not that winter masks the yet quick earth, Nor still that summer walks the hills no more; That fickle spring has doffed the plaid she wore To swathe herself in napkins till rebirth. These buddings, flowerings, are nothing worth; This ermine cloud stretched firm across the lakes Will presently be shattered into flakes; Then, starveling world, be subject to my mirth. I know that faithful swift mortality Subscribes to nothing longer than a day; All beauty signals imminent decay; And painted wreckage cumbers land and sea. I laugh to hear a sniveling wise one say, “Some winnowed self escapes this reckless way.”