Sad Autumn is the miser of thy gold; <br />But dead and meek <br />Thy petals speak <br />More than thy beauty told. <br /> <br />Now art thou sister of the wind and dew— <br />All fleeting things <br />Whose rainbow wings <br />Depart to come anew. <br /> <br />They make a fountain of the funeral urn— <br />Fragrance and tint <br />That, passing, hint <br />They pass but to return. <br /> <br />We find a myriad glimmerings of Truth; <br />Her perfect face <br />Withholds its grace, <br />Granting the heart its youth. <br /> <br />The deathless lyric ever on her tongue <br />Bestows a word; <br />The rest, unheard, <br />To alien skies is sung. <br /> <br />And so by touch and shadow, glimpse and gleam, <br />We know what path <br />Her passion hath <br />On heavens and hearts that dream. <br /> <br />And know that change is best, despite its pain: <br />On custom's rust <br />And Beauty's dust <br />Falls the renewing rain. <br />Wherefore his wings, except the swallow flew? <br />Joy's thrall is brief, <br />But that of grief <br />Is made as transient too, <br /> <br />Either were not, were either evermore. <br />The flower soon dies, <br />But soon the sighs <br />End, that we sighed therefor.<br /><br />George Sterling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-yellow-rose-2/
