VITAL breathings of delight
Flush your cheeks with blue and gold,
Painted bannerets of light,
Picketed 'twixt cold and cold.

Yet with purpose bear ye must
Seasoned cannikins of fruit,
Ere the red autumnal rust
Crinkles downward to the root.

This your little year, as ours,
Blossoms cannot make sublime.
Ye are rooted in the hours,
Ye are passengers of time.