All perfect things are saddening in effect.
   The autumn wood robed in its scarlet clothes,
   The matchless tinting on the royal rose
Whose velvet leaf by no least flaw is flecked.
Love's supreme moment, when the soul unchecked
   Soars high as heaven, and its best rapture knows,
   These hold a deeper pathos than our woes,
Since they leave nothing better to expect.

Resistless change, when powerless to improve,
   Can only mar.  The gold will pale to grey--
   No thing remains tomorrow as today,--
The rose will not seem quite so fair, and love
   Must find its measures of delight made less.
   Ah, how imperfect is all Perfectness!