G AY antirrhinums, powdered, striped, and freaked, 
Laugh down the garden ways in motley wise, 
Rose-lipped, white-throated, blushing cherry-cheeked 
Some—and the rest like summer butterflies. 
Ah, but they fail beneath the autumn sun, 
The low gold sunsets of the dying year; 
For Summer wanes—for Summer’s lease is run; 
Autumn is come, and Winter waits anear. 
The threat takes form, the lurking Fate’s revealed: 
Lo, undisguised, stark symbol of the tomb, 
Or ever the hordes of Winter take the field— 
The bare brown skull behind the mask of bloom. 
