Lily Tree

Think not that in dying I am from joyousness riven:
This mere fabric of a soul, with insufficient shell,
Unto the senseless earth from which 'twas given
I return in kind: none the worse; none too well.

Living here has been a lifetime of ennui,
In observance of a single changeless view
Of the endless cycling of a small lily tree:
Now blindingly white, now depressingly nude.

Here and there, like wine or blood drops on a sheet
Or gems along a velvet seam, little fruits
Peek out, and the interplay is sweet;
Until they fall beneath the yardman's boots.

Three weeks this is or four, mid-spring,
And of all the year is most worth telling:
The former months hope-gathering,
The latter hope-dispelling.