The days of Spring are Autumn’s accolade
For that it can enjoy them, unadorned
With the cloak of sparrows or with the skirt of maize,
Preserving each in a frame upon a wall.
There they do hang and glow, like David’s coat
Had all its glory lasted till the age
Its wearer looked a shrivelled rag himself,
Unknit of fabric worthy young man’s strain.
Among the season’s other furniture
Of darkened leaves and dampened valley grass,
Like ghosts themselves, those ancient clothes remain
And beam remembrance, when they once were worn.