Inheritors
‘Où sont les fleurs d’hier? Toutes mortes’ (Anon)
Where are the flowers of yesterday?. All dead.
And where the beauties they displayed?. Dull dust.
Can’t loveliness escape time’s fatal tread
Or void its squalid blight and fœtid must?.
All lives decline from prime, ceding perfection’s grace
Before fresh young inheritors can take their place.
