Your way of loving is too slow for me.
For you, I think, must know a tree by heart
Four seasons through, and note each single leaf
With microscopic glance before it falls --
And after watching soberly the turn
Of autumn into winter and the slow
Awakening again, the rise of sap
Then only will you cry: "I love this tree!"
As if the beauty of the thing could be
Made lovelier or marred by any mood
Of wind, or by the sun's caprice; as if
All beauty had not sprung up with the seed --
With such slow ways you find no time to love
A falling flame, a flower's brevity.