And now that I have seen what he’s become,
I pause surprised! Why he is mortal, too.
For just as I have soured, and bent from plumb,
So he refused the grace from false to true.
There was a time when I was starved for light.
He stood as if the noon were in his hands,
And I reached out– no bread was ever so bright–
But then the world’s argument demands
The banquet end, even if it ends too soon.
Why yes, the seasons shift and branch–
The grape, the plume, the raisin and the prune–
We all start out with juice, but not carte-blanche.
___Now you who read this world with youthful eyes,
___Take heart, it’s not that bad when beauty dies.