Friday, April 3, 2009

Too Late

A poem on transience, paraphrased by one member of Mansuite.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower,
but only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
In autumn she achieves,
A still for golden blaze.
But nothing golden-brown, griddled, with bacon and eggs in the middle stays.


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