Bloom does the scintillating flower from the lackluster bud;
Only to wither and fade into a mass of broken petals.
Rise does the smoldering sun from the gray horizons;
Only to sink back once again into the vale of darkness.
Emerge does the frail butterfly from the dreary cocoon;
Only to crumple pitifully in the embrace of death.
Flow does the frolicking river from the mountain-gully;
Only to lose its existence in the forceful waves of sea.
Grow does the rich-canopied tree from the gloomy seed;
Only to be stripped bare with the arrival of autumn.
Gather do the rapturous clouds from the wisps of vapor;
Only to pour rains and disperse into nothingness.
And, raise does the stolid man from the bawling new-born;
Only to live a fleeting life and finish off in a wooden vault.