By Oscar Wilde

They spill their ruin as they pass,
For in the spring the daffodils raise their faces
Until the roses bloom in fiery flames;
And in the fall purple violets bloom
When the brittle crocus stirs up the winter snow,
But the decrepit young trees will be reborn,
And this gray earth will grow green with the summer dew,
And the children will run through an ocean of fragile primroses.
But what life, whose bitter greed
Tear our heels, watching over the sunless night,
Will it encourage the hope of those days that will no longer return?
Ambition, love, and all the feelings that burn
They die too soon, and we only find bliss
The withered remains of some dead memory.
Me and Despair posing
A vomitous sick of colours
Eyes on Fire