(Forwarded by Cynthia Abegail)
Beauty imposes reverence in the Spring,
Grave as the urge within the honeybuds,
It wounds us as we sing.
Beauty is joy that stays not overlong
Clad in the magic of sincerities,
It rides up in a song.
Beauty impose chastenings on the heart,
Grave as the birds in last solemnities,
Assembling to depart.