A Life

By John Gould Fletcher

Her life was like a swiftly rushing stream

Green and scarlet,

Falling into darkness.

The seasons passed for her,

Like pale iris wilting,

Or peonies flying to ribbons before the storm-gusts.

The sombre pine-tops waited until the seasons had passed.

Then in her heart they grew

The snows of changeless winter

Stirred by the bitter winds of unsatisfied desire.