Page:Poems and ballads (IA balladspoems00swinrich).pdf/169

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A SONG IN SEASON.

153

xviii.

Joy by daytime

Fills his playtime
Full of songs loud mirth takes pride in;
Night and morrow
Weave round sorrow
Thoughts as soft as sleep to hide in.

xix.

Graceless faces,

Loveless graces,
Are but motes in light that quicken,
Sands that run down
Ere the sundown,
Roseleaves dead ere autumn sicken.

xx.

Fair and fruitless

Charms are bootless