How swiftly go the seasons ‘round,
From the present to the past;
And time himself in rapid sound,
Makes all their beauty last.

Each flower blooms to wither soon,
Yet bears a thousand dreams;
While every night falls bright with moon,
And woven in the beams.

Oh sweet the grass that comes anew,
That paints the fields so green;
While nature sings with each soft dew,
A song we call serene.

Though birds in flight may seek the sun,
And scatter in the sky,
The winds shall ever sing, ‘tis one,
At the end of every sigh.

— Jones Very

• Jones Very