Beauty imposes reverence in the Spring,
Grave as the urge within the honeybuds,
It wounds us as we sing.
Beauty is joy that stays not overlong.
Clad in the magic of sincerities,
It rides up in a song.
Beauty imposes chastenings on the heart,
Grave as the birds in last solemnities
Assembling to depart.
/by John Shaw Neilson/