Funny how dull fruition is.
Summer is a drone, a lullaby,
While spring is glory, overwhelming reason,
Stirring the blood, sparking the heart’s cold fire.
The becoming, I think, is everything;
Being is hardly worth the time
When birth, after all, is the only life,
And death is a dream
Out of which flowers wake,
Blinking in the newborn, mid-May sun
And smiling on the living-dying world.
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