Puck of Pook's Hill

  _Cities and Thrones and Powers,_ _Stand in Time's eye,_ _Almost as long as flowers,_ _Which daily die:_ _But, as new buds put forth,_ _To glad new men,_ _Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth,_ _The Cities rise again._

  _This season's Daffodil,_ _She never hears,_ _What change, what chance, what chill,_ _Cut down last year's;_ _But with bold countenance,_ _And knowledge small,_ _Esteems her seven days' continuance_ _To be perpetual._

  _So Time that is o'er-kind,_ _To all that be,_ _Ordains us e'en as blind,_ _As bold as she:_ _That in our very death,_ _And burial sure,_ _Shadow to shadow, well-persuaded, saith,_ _'See how our works endure!'_