Cycle

Dearest young leaf, Why so melancholy? Thy emerald sheath has not borne Time's folly. Think not of Autumn's deathly brilliance, Of colors rich and flaky grounds, For Thou wilt weep every moment hence, While Springtime's youth still bounds. Greet Thy greenness with glee, For thy root to the Oak remains strong, Aeolus' fury on Thee has no effect till Summertime gone. So worry not of what is to come, Enjoy Thy existence, little one.