Classic Poem

I saw her pass and said, “The flame of her
Will not outlive my glance.” So fragile, proud,
And spendthrift young, she burned along the crowd,
A darting thing of rose and gold and myrrh,
Riding the day's glad wonder with a spur.
The motion of her was a running cloud,
Her promise all new leaves and fields fresh-ploughed.
As if a wild-plum tree, some April noon,
Should wake and fling its bounty to the air,
Beside an age-wise ruin with creepers grown,
Trace on that mould its light and shadow rune,
So young against the wall—and yet aware
How, in one hour, it had outlived the stone.