A Poet's Bow
Swiftly comes the end;
It leaps upon us.
Nothing can stop it.
Centuries may pass,
Each thing falls at last.
Read well these poems,
Each in daily place,
Lay them in your heart,
Yet they now will cease.
Bow I must then take,
Render my last due,
After a whole moon
Near to Parnassus.
Dear reader, I give
Open thanks to you.
Now I take my bow.
