Blaze autumn leaves illumine things I know

But none more poignant than of passing time;

For all the things the living earth bestows

Enjoys at best a brief and measured prime.

The height of man, a many seasoned reign—

Much longer than the span of leaf or flower,

Yet still his joy and strength begin to wane

And with time’s dregs, he yields his final hour.

What can one do but yet enjoy the bloom

That is here granted by that unseen hand,

For none it seems rejoice within the tomb—

Save worms which scriptured augurs countermand.

Thus what rings true of that beyond the grave…?

Sweet buds of spring proclaim that promise made.