This curly childhood of the year, These days of dancing blood – Is Spring the proper time for breath To be resigned for good? When Summer's face is bright and clear, And all the trees are green – Shall I believe the time has come To creep away unseen? When Autumn shuffles leaves of gold, And deals them in one heap – Must I agree that that's the hour For everlasting sleep? And when the world is white with snow, With Winter in his prime – I'll still maintain that Death's a fool, That knows no place or time. |