Autumn Movement

Carl Sandburg

I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing
   lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the
   copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the
   taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of
   holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of
   snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go,
   not one lasts.