Classic Poem

Now has another year of roses
Scattered its bright, ephemeral flame
Through river-bottom and arroyo
In the high country whence I came.

And I have never watched one petal
Blown like a frail and lyric word
Down the immutable emerald silence
Of forest aisles, unseen, unheard.

First the wild currant, then the rose,
Then aster, sunflower, golden-rod,
Moving in lovely, brief procession
To dark oblivion in the sod.

The fields are withered now to umber;
River and sky are ashen, chill;
Though still with reminiscent fires
The aspen kindles draw and hill.

There will be other years and roses;
Surely I shall return at last
And watch their dear, familiar magic
Moving in visible music past.

One twelve-month of my store—one summer—
Blown out like flame, beyond recall.
Why must I always think its blooming
Was somehow loveliest of all?