I found this poem satisfyingly depressing. I felt like brooding over life's cycles today. Ironically, though, poems like this end up lifting my spirits rather than deflating them. What is it about poetry, depressing or otherwise, that makes a person feel so good?
Plus this went well with my autumn photo, which I managed to snap while my dog was doing his business under this beautiful tree. Talk about life's ironies. And yes, I did pick it up, but I didn't have a bag, so I had to use jumbo leaves.
And with that gross image, I give you W.B. Yeats:
THE COMING OF WISDOM WITH TIME
by William Butler Yeats
Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.