Let not the gardener's hand disturb the ground, Where once fair bloom did drink the golden sun; For Time, more deft than man, makes soft unbound The tender cords of life till all is done. Why seek to gild the rose when scent is fled? Why bind the oak when age hath cracked its frame? The dust shall claim the crown from every head, And ashes answer all with equal name. Thus should we let the fallen rest in peace, Untroubled by the meddling art of men; Decay doth weave its tapestry of cease, And teaches more than mortal tongues can pen. So leave all things to fade, as nature wills, For beauty rots, yet in its rotting—still.
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