Oh for a poet - for a beacon bright - Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,</br>We people on the pavement looked at him:</br> He was a gentleman from sole to crown,</br>Clean favored, and imperially slim.</br>And he was always quietly arrayed,</br>And he was always human when he talked;</br>But still he fluttered pulses when he said,</br>"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.</br>And he was rich—yes, richer than a king— </br>And admirably schooled in every grace:</br>In fine, we thought that he was everything</br>To make us wish that we were in his place.</br>So on we worked, and waited for the light,</br>And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;</br>And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,</br>Went home and put a bullet through his head. </br>

No matter what we are, and what we sing,
Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel

The gods are growing old;
The stars are singing Golden hair to gray
Green leaf to yellow leaf,—or chlorophyl
To xanthophyl, to be more scientific.