I cried over beautiful things
knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf
at the neck of the copper sunburned woman,
the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes
and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come
in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.
by Carl Sandburg
in Vienna's City Park
on this splendid November day
© by Merisi