A Feast of Lanterns, by L. Cranmer-Byng, [1916], at sacred-texts.com

p. 52

III. Sorrow

Dawn reddens in the wake of night; but the days
      of our life return not.
Sweet-scented orchids blot out the path; but
      they die in the drift of waters and their
      flowers are blotted out.
The Yang-tse-Kiang splashes through shelving
      maple-woods.
The eye contains a far horizon, but the wound of
      spring lies deep in the heart.
O Poet! turn thee to the Capital—to the men
      who shall make thee forget.
Surely, the Earth-sorrow for the passing of spring
      from her quiet places is overwhelming.