Cosmos

THE tiny thing of painted gauze that flutters in the sun

And sinks upon the breast of night with all its living done;

The unconsidered seed that from the garden blows away,

Blooming its little time to bloom in one short summer day;

The leaf the idle wind shakes down in autumn from the tree,

The grasshopper who for an hour makes gayest minstrelsy —

These — and this restless soul of mine — are one with flaming spheres

And cold, dead moons whose ghostly fires haunt unremembered years.