The withered leaf, the faded flower be mine,

The broken shrine,

All things that knowing beauty for a day

Have passed away

To dwell in the illimitable wood

Of quietude,

Undying, radiant, young,

Passed years among.

No blighting wind upon their beauty blows,

The altar glows

With flames unquenchable and bright

By day, by night;

Secure from envious time's deflowering breath

They know no death,

But silently, imperishably fair,

Grow lovelier there.

He who adores too much the impending hour,

The budding flower,

Who knows not with what dyes an hour that's dead

Is garmented,

Who walks with glimmering shapes companionless,

He cannot guess

With how great love and thankfulness I praise

The yesterdays.