John Towner Frederick

THE SWIFTNESS of blown youth, swiftness of death,

Are in the orchard bloom and blossom-fall.

And in a little while is none at all

Of this cool-flaming glory. Like a breath

Blown on the pane, it fades without a trace

To dim new leaves that hide the nesting bird.

I think there is not any quickest word

So swift as beauty’s passing from its place.

Yet we who dwell in love beneath this bough

Know neither fading nor the falling flower.

Our immortality is all-secure

As Beauty’s, ruling still the Then and Now,

Careless what fleeting error stains the hour—

Child of the fragile phantoms that endure.