Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Thanks for this post – part of my breakfast-time reading.
I keep imagining a conversation between the shades of Frost and Bukowski. Well, not so much a conversation, because it would be so short.
Frost would say, “Writing free verse is playing tennis with the net down.”
Bukowski would reply, “Who the f*** is playing tennis?”
Frost’s ‘clever’ little dig at free verse always irritated me. But on the other hand it’s worth reminding myself from time to time that he was entitled to this opinion because he was so damn good at writing formal poetry.