The likeness of his yesterdays is such That many a man might fly them if he could But rid himself of their endearing clutch And free his heart of their restraining blood; But the moment that he yearns to try and touch Some morning just to see it change its hood, The April underneath soon proves it's much The same -- by doing what most Aprils would! To find oneself no farther from the dead Than a rose is from a rose a June ago, Or fallen leaves are from an autumn, red The moment that a seed decides to grow? Should not the rondo of the earth be more Than yesterday's -- brought from the day before? |