I Sought the Wood in Winter by Willa Cather

I sought the wood in summer / When every twig was green; / The rudest boughs were tender, / And buds were pink between. / Light-fingered aspens trembled / In fitful sun and shade, / And daffodils were golden / In every starry glade. / The brook sang like a robin -- / My hand could check him where / The lissome maiden willows / Shook out their yellow hair.

"How frail a thing is Beauty," / I said, "when every breath / She gives the vagrant summer / But swifter woos her death. / For this the star dust troubles, / For this have ages rolled: / To deck the wood for bridal / And slay her with the cold."