The season fails, her petals fly <br />little clouds now blot the sky <br />gone the promise in the leaves <br />plumbed all golden mysteries. <br /> <br />Newborn heaven's pearly roof <br />has lost a measure of its youth <br />not so high, nor clear, nor fair <br />the limbic of the petalled air. <br /> <br />Meaner green succeeds to fill <br />the dark between the daffodil <br />earth and heavn together mourn <br />the passing of the undersong. <br /> <br />Even Love has left the land <br />and girt him in a wedding band <br />light the grassy hill has known <br />in your decline I see my own. <br /> <br />Nature, you and I must lay <br />away the blandishments of May <br />and, seperate estates to tend <br />be sad and happy for the end.<br /><br />Morgan Michaels<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ides-of-may/
