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"Decay"

Amidst the happiest joy, a shade of grief will come;-its mark in summer time, a leaf, tinged with the autumn's visible decay, as pining to forgetfulness away,- aye, blank forgetfulness!- that coldest lot, to be,-and to have been,-and then be not. E'en beauty's self, love's essence, heaven's prime, meet for eternity in joys sublime, earth's most divinest,-is a mortal thing, and nurses time's sick autumn for its spring; and fades, and fades, till wonder knows it not, and admiration hath all praise forgot; coldly forsaking an unheeding past, to fade, and fall, and die, like common things at last.

John Clare