Classic Poem

Yellow clowns in an enormous pantomime,
The severed leaves rush over the green baize
In the sunlight,
Tumble, somersault, whirl,

Rush to the wings,
While in a flash of crimson
Some delirious columbine
Pirouettes, wheels, lifts in the air,
And sinks in a slow agony of delicious grace.

Do you not think, Elspeth,
Seeing how light it is,
Crisp and curling and forever dying,
That we should wear the scorn of death in our hearts,
Like a black relic pressed to a nun's white bosom?