_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!’_