Blaze autumn leaves illumine things I know
But none more poignant than of passing time;
That every thing the living earth bestows
Enjoys at best a closely measured prime.
The peak of man, a many seasoned reign
Much longer than the span of scented flower
But still his pleasured essence sure to wane
And with the dregs of time so rests his 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,
Does here and now fair best a promise staid?
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.
