Beauty Dallies Not

Henry's Views

The colors of summer flowers,
Lush reds, brilliant yellows, subtle lavenders,
Reach their zenith early —
For just a moment —
And from those lofty heights
Begins their relentless decline.

As August rounds the bend
And gallops toward the finish line,
Petals droop and shrivel…and drop,
And once vibrant hues fade non-stop.

Yet even in this cruel effacement
Lingers there an echo of glory past,
As in the ravaged faces of the old
Remains there a hint of youth steadfast.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story

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