Weed-Fires

Now every little garden holds a haze 
That tells of longer nights and shorter days; 
Handfuls of weeds and outcast garden-folk 
Yield up their lives and pass away in smoke. 
The leaves of dandelions, deeply notched, 
Burn with the thistle's purple plumes, unwatched 
Of any eyes that loved them yesterday — 
They light a sullen flare, and pass away. 

The small fires whimper softly as they burn, 
They murmur at the hand that will not turn 
Back on the dial and bring to them again 
June's turquoise skies or April's diamond rain. 
"Alas," the weeds are crying as they smoulder, 
"We are grown wiser with our growing older; 
We know what summer is — but ah! we buy 
Knowledge too dear; we know, because we die."