The Ides Of May
The season fails, her petals fly
little clouds now blot the sky
gone the promise in the leaves
plumbed all golden mysteries.
Newborn heaven's pearly roof
has lost a measure of its youth
not so high, nor clear, nor fair
the limbic of the petalled air.
Meaner green succeeds to fill
the dark between the daffodil
earth and heavn together mourn
the passing of the undersong.
Even Love has left the land
and girt him in a wedding band
light the grassy hill has known
in your decline I see my own.
Nature, you and I must lay
away the blandishments of May
and, seperate estates to tend
be sad and happy for the end.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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