Now I have lost you, I must scatter
All of you on the air henceforth;
Not that to me it can ever matter
Buy it’s only fair to the rest of the earth.
Now especially, when it is winter
And the sun’s not half so bright as she was,
Who wouldn’t be glad to find a splinter
That once was you in the frozen grass?
Snowflakes, too, will be softer feathered,
Clouds, perhaps, will be whiter plumed;
Rain, whose brilliance you caught and gathered,
Purer silver have reassumed.
Farewell, sweet dust; I never was a miser:
Once, for a minute, I made you mine:
Now you are gone, I am none the wiser
But the leaves of the willow are as bright as wine.
Elinor Wyle (1885 – 1928)